


Moonstruck

by emmish



Series: Moonstruck [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Badly-Behaved Sherlock, Banter, Breathplay, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Love, M/M, Pets, Phone Sex, Public Sex, Romance, Sexting, Smut, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmish/pseuds/emmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock misses John on their 1-year anniversary.<br/>Established relationship / JohnLock - fluffy, smutty, stand-alone fic in several short chapters.<br/>*Addendum* - Sequel in progress!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_09.58am_ - **John. – SH**

 _10.02_ – **JOHN - SH**

 _10.04_ – **John? - SH**

 _10.07_ – **John I need you. – SH**

 _10.10_ \- **John? – SH**

The doctor settled into the half-full cafeterias' wobbly chair with a sigh, taking out his phone. He had felt it vibrating insistently a few hours ago, but sitting in the front row of the medical conference, he figured that it wasn't quite the done thing to take it out and pander to (no doubt) Sherlocks' (no doubt) childish requests.

The grubby chrome and plastic of the table was pleasantly cool under his forearms. The searing early-afternoon sunlight lancing languidly through a nearby window made his blue eyes wince and his skin prickle with heat. The sticky high temperatures currently smothering Britain seemed to be particularly virulent here in Manchester, and he wondered how the cold-blooded Sherlock was faring back in London.

He read his outstanding texts and grinned to himself. Dialling Sherlock, he huffed with laughter at the response he got.

"Prefer to text," the baritone voice said abruptly over the slightly crackly line, before the connection ended.

**Whats up Sherlock Ive only been gone since this morning– JW**

**I love you. – SH**

John grinned foolishly, before typing a teasing reply.

**Is that why you prefer to text? So you dont have to say it out loud – JW**

In seconds, his phone rang, and he waited before answering it casually.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I love you." Without further ado, Sherlock ended the call. John rubbed a hand across his mouth in an ostensibly thoughtful pose, but he was simply trying to disguise the beaming smile on his face. It was true that since they had become a couple, Sherlock had surprised them both by revealing an affectionate and romantic side that neither of them had previously suspected he possessed. He was also quickly proving himself to be a singularly insatiable sexual being. Sherlock's utter lack of subtlety, tact and self-consciousness often led to the type of proclamations that made John flush with pride but more often than not, with embarrassment, since Sherlock usually decided that the absolute best time to announce that he was 'going to suffocate if I can't get you into bed with me right now,' or that he was 'hard enough to cut diamonds,' was typically at a blood-splattered crime scene, or when they were having tea chéz Mrs. Hudson, or most memorably, at a press conference where Sherlock had aggressively commandeered Lestrade's microphone to announce to John in front of a room full of press that if he could persuade the police to 'speed up these infinitely dull proceedings', that he would make it worth his while, and by the way did he know that he had handcuffs and baby oil in his pocket right now.

**Why don't you come home – SH**

**Its only two more days – JW**

**I have a present for you – happy 365 days – SH**

This was a surprise. Sherlock was notoriously bad at remembering things like birthdays (including his own), let alone buying gifts in honour of the occasion. John had put his foot down last Christmas, insisting that Sherlock really owed Molly a card at least, as she was bound to overspend on some lavish gift for him in a misguided attempt to gain his affection. Sherlock had left the flat in a grump, shoplifted the most un-festive card he could find (for some reason the card's cover had a photograph of a saucepan of boiled eggs on it), and given it, blank, to Molly without writing so much as his own name inside it.

Tomorrow though, it was their one-year-anniversary, and John was frankly astounded that the detective was aware of this fact.

**Ill believe that when I see it – JW**

**Believe it – SH**

John's own gift to Sherlock was, he felt, suitably engrossing and was bound to arouse the quirky detective's interest, if only for a little while, which was really all he could ask for. And 'engrossing' really was the only positive term he could logically apply to the bizarre present. The 'gross' part was particularly apt. He knew Sherlock would like it though, and that was all that mattered. It was currently being kept at his sister's flat, knowing that Sherlock would have rooted it out like a dog to a truffle if it had remained in 221B.

He knew for a fact that Sherlock would never willingly have anything to do with his sister. The first and only time they had met, they had got on like a house on fire. That is to say, a devastatingly combustive blaze resulting in bitter-tasting ashes and treacherous, white-hot rubble. Harry had split Sherlock's lip and he had in turn given her a quick right hook and a black eye before John managed to separate the snarling pugilists in time to promise himself that he would never leave them alone together again. A few minutes to make three cups of tea was apparently long enough for Sherlock to spit out a few acidic deductions and for Harry's foul-mouthed temper to rage up.

**Cant you come back tomorrow – SH**

John sighed, smiling.

**Ill see what I can do. Are you behaving? – JW**

**…yes – SH**

**What have you done – JW**

**…nothing – SH**

**Something illegal? – JW**

**Not this time – SH**

**…this time? – JW**

**have to go the skunks escaped – SH**

And that was the last John heard from Sherlock for a few hours. After his lunch, he headed back to the conference, settling in his front-row seat and preparing to try and force wakefulness through the afternoon's talks on Alzheimer's breakthroughs and age-related macular degeneration.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - The egg card exists, and can be found in Marks and Spencers. XD


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - phone smut ;)

After a swelteringly hot day and mind-numbing lectures, John was relieved to get back to the hotel, booked for all the attending speakers, physicians and students, by 8pm. It was surprisingly opulent – a vast foyer with a dark, glossy hardwood floor and flocked, wine-red walls, with brass-coloured fixtures and a distinctly old-fashioned, rich atmosphere. The glass that ensconced the lamps and overhead lights was a moody green, the dim ambience that the echoing magnitude of the rooms created was close and cloying enough as to almost be haunting.

John accompanied a gaggle of people he had befriended throughout the day towards the bar, glancing about himself and distractedly wondering how long it took to dust and clean this place. After a surgeon called Chris had gotten in the first round, he settled at the crowded table and sipped his beer gratefully, happily falling into easy conversation. The bar was large and fairly noisy, a pleasant aria of clinking glasses, a constant, indiscriminate murmur of voices, the occasional burst of masculine laughter, and some faint easy-listening music piping through unseen speakers.

An hour and a half later, midway through regaling his enthralled and tipsy company with a story about camel spiders in Afghanistan, John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he fought a small grin. The tale ended with Sergeant Jones screaming like a little girl, and peals of laughter from the crowd at the table. He got up quickly, asking the mixed crowd of easy-going doctors their next tipple choice, then heading to the bar to order, taking out his phone as he did so.

He opened the photo that had been sent. It was a picture of Sherlock, wrapped in his sheet like a toga, holding up a hand-written sign, over the top of which he peered endearingly. The fat black marker pen had been scrawled in the detective's surprisingly inelegant handwriting – 'I MISS YOU.' It took a second for John to realise that the white 'sign' that Sherlock had defaced with permanent marker, was in fact a white kitchen tray.

" _Sherlock_ ," he reprimanded under his breath, as though his eccentric partner could hear him. Mischievously, he thumbed a quick reply.

**Take your sheet off and send another – JW**

He ordered the next round at the bar, watching the variety of beer, wine and spirits being placed onto a tray that, unlike his tea tray at home, was free from scribbles and doodles of any kind.

He immediately checked his phone when it alerted him a minute later, and saw the message before opening the picture.

**Took the sheet off – SH**

Sherlock was sprawled across their bed in the photo, robed in his long black coat, grinning innocently up at the phone which he was apparently holding above his head. The coat was done up, the collar turned playfully up, nudging into the detective's soft black curls.

**Damn it Sherlock – JW**

**oops Ill try again – SH**

John glanced back at the table, shiftily waiting for the new message, opening it as soon as his phone began to buzz.

**Better? – SH**

The detective was lying naked, holding his violin between his legs and clearly mid-giggle as the photo was taken, testified also by the fact that the photo was blurry, so Sherlock's arm was presumably shaking with mirth.

John swallowed back a sharp gasp, texting back a rather feeble reply, his brain rapidly taking leave of such unimportant matters as motor function.

**Much – JW**

**Now you – SH**

John licked his lips, and reluctantly pocketed his phone, carrying the tray belatedly back to the table. Thrilling with arousal and hard tickles of excitement, he decided it was high time to get upstairs to his room. Grabbing his own beer, he made his excuses hastily and received a rousing and drunken 'goodnight' from his new mates, before making his way through the baroque-style hotel whilst trying not to draw attention to his own restless anticipation.

He was in his room and in the processing of clumsily undressing when his phone buzzed insistently. Breathlessly, he read the message.

**I'm desperate hurry – SH**

" _Christ_ ," John exclaimed to himself, stripping completely, falling onto the sumptuous bed and trying to fumble through his phone settings to find the Video Message option, inwardly cursing the fact that he hadn't brought his laptop along. Before he could, another photo appeared in his inbox.

Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, head down, ebony curls hanging in his eyes, his face and chest flushed a faint pink. The camera had captured his right hand in a blur of movement as it worked hard between his thighs. John couldn't text back quick enough.

**Fuck Sherlock wait. VM NOW – JW**

He was connected in seconds, soon thrilling to the sound of Sherlock's heavy breathing and the sight of his flustered face.

"Watch me, then I'll watch you," the detective murmured urgently into his screen, propping his phone against the headboard, giving a slightly wonky but nevertheless perfect view of Sherlock adjusting himself on all fours on top of their bed, side-on to the camera.

"I'm…close," Sherlock muttered by way of apology, before seizing himself and tugging feverishly, faint, high-pitched gasps crackling through John's phone.

"…Talk to me… _please_ ," Sherlock begged, his long, pale back arching as he let his head hang down, his left arm straining against the bed, body rocking back and forward in short, grinding movements.

They had never done this before, but right now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. John found his voice, which cracked a bit as he stared at his hideously small phone screen, taking himself in hand as he started to soothe Sherlock. At the sound of his doctor's voice, Sherlock nodded vaguely, exhaling raggedly, tugging at himself even faster.

"God, you're amazing…make some noise for me Sherlock," John managed, unable to resist working himself right to the precipice, which took only a matter of seconds, and hanging there by a tingling crimson thread.

Sherlock started panting like he had been underwater for sixty seconds, growling out little noises as if in pain, his face contorted into a grimace of ecstasy.

" _Look at me, look at me_ ," John urged loudly, watching as the detective used utmost willpower to hold off his climax, scrabble for his phone, and sigh with something like relief as he saw John's equally pained expression, heard his fevered breathing as he neared completion.

" _John…oh…God…I'm…_ " Sherlock managed to keep eye contact for all of a second, then the pale grey-green eyes squeezed shut and he let out a ragged yell, shuddering violently.

The sight shoved John over the edge with fearsome vigour, and he forced himself to keep staring at the damp, trembling detective who had collapsed onto the bed, panting wheezily and sobbing out little wet noises as he came down. A string of curses and a final incantation of Sherlock's name that was more a seizure of his vocal chords than a real word, and he was done.

* * *

 

Five minutes later, and Sherlock was in his dressing gown, reclining on the bed and talking to John through the video message.

"Oh! I forgot - here, have a look at what I got," the detective suddenly interrupted, standing up with a grunt and taking John on a shaky, kaleidoscopic trip through 221B as Sherlock trotted downstairs and into the kitchen.

The screen swerved suddenly onto Sherlock's pale, angular face as he spoke into his phone, his bright grey-green eyes and his crinkly, eager smile quite frankly giving John cause to worry.

"This is Keith!"

The screen twirled dizzyingly and before he knew it, John was staring at a carrying crate on the kitchen table containing an adult skunk.

He was speechless for a few seconds. "…I thought you were joking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the phone screen. "When do I ever joke, John?"

"If that thing sprays in the flat, don't expect me to come home."

Sherlock pouted, then glanced worriedly at the potentially volatile black and white mammal that squeaked and scratched inside its crate.

"…Okay. I'll be careful. John?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Love you." Sherlock pecked the screen of his phone with a small crinkly grin.

"You too Sherlock. I'm gonna go to sleep, early one tomorrow. Text if you need me. Night."

He too pecked his phone with a grin, feeling a childish flurry of affection, and ended the call before settling into bed with a satisfied sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

_10.20pm_   
**Mrs Hudson told me off. Said I should keep noise down when experimenting. Told her wasn’t experimenting but masturbating. Shes not happy – SH**

 

_00.02am_   
**You awake? happy anniversary x - SH**

 

_3.10am_   
**John do you know what happens when you ejaculate onto an open flame? – SH**   
**I do – SH**   
**Cleaned fireplace while I was there – SH**   
**You can thank me later – SH**

 

_4.45am_   
**Bored. Did something youre going to shout at me for probably – SH**

 

_5.02am_   
**Keith likes my violin playing – SH**   
**at least I think he does – SH**   
**because he hasnt sprayed me – SH**

 

_5.59am_   
**Can you take a skunk for a walk? - SH**

 

_7.11am_   
**Lestrade needs my help on case. You back today? - SH  
Be back today – SH**

 

_8.25am_   
**Asked lestrade about lawfulness of taking skunks for walks. Said if I did he would arrest me. Poor keith – SH**

 

_11.59am_   
**Case dull + easy. Borrowed Mrs Hudsons treadmill so keith can exercise – SH  
When are you back? – SH**

 

When he got to his hotel room on the second day at the conference after going AWOL (he was pretty sure no-one would miss him, and there were only so many painfully dry medical lectures he could handle – besides which, he flattered himself that he already knew everything they had been discussing), John read through his outstanding messages with barely controlled giggles. He was mortified to imagine the state of the flat upon his return, and that of his infinitely eccentric partner. He gathered his frugal belongings and texted back.

  
**Hey Sherlock Im leaving here in a minute Ill be back this evening cos going to cover at the surgery for a few hours Sarah texted me she v short staffed – JW**

  
The blunt reply came almost immediately.

  
**No – SH**

  
A small huff of laughter left the doctor.

  
**What do you mean no? – JW**

  
Sherlock’s replies were as barmy as John had expected.

  
**Want you now – SH**   
**Keith isnt as good company as you – SH**   
**And he cant give me sex – SH**   
**well maybe he could – SH**   
**but it would probably be unpleasant – SH**   
**and he cant do that thing with my neck that you do – SH**   
**and i doubt he could find my prostate - SH**   
**youd better not be late Im in enough trouble with mrs Hudson as it is for pleasuring myself round the clock – SH**   
**she walked in on me purposefully choking myself on one of your jumpers for sexual gratification – SH**   
**PS that was a joke – SH**

  
John let out a sharp burst of laughter, shaking his head. He opened another photo message.

  
**Look at this – SH**

  
It was a doodle of what appeared to be a number 8 on its side, and by the look of it, somewhere on Sherlock’s milky-white skin.

  
**Bored enough to start drawing all over yourself? – JW**

**  
Not a drawing – SH**

**  
Dont understand – JW**

**  
Tattooed myself w/needle and ink – SH**

  
John’s mouth fell open. “ _Fuck_ me…”

  
**You didn’t – JW**

**  
Don’t be foolish john I know youre not blind of course I did – SH**

 

**did a good job too I thought – SH**

  
The doctor groaned and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

  
**What the fuck for?! – JW**

**  
its infinity its you and me – SH**

  
John sat down heavily on his bed, licking his lips. He let out a shaky breath and stared at the photo again. Giving it more than a cursory look this time, he saw the faint red soreness around the symbol.

  
**John? Are you angry? – SH**

**dont be angry – SH**

  
John nibbled on his bottom lip, sighing past an uncomfortable, unfamiliar constriction in his throat.  
Swallowing hard, he began thumbing a reply.

  
**Its really you and me? – JW**

**  
Yes. its on the inside of my left forearm. Are you angry? – SH**

**  
No Sherlock. Thankyou x – JW**

**  
:) good. Now hurry up and come home I want to roger you – SH**

  
With a distinctly wet, tight laugh, John smudged a hand roughly across his eyes before putting his phone away, grinning to himself as he prepared to head home.


	4. Chapter 4

  
John had no chance to be bored on the two-and-a-half-hour return train journey to London, thanks to Sherlock’s constant and constantly entertaining texts. He grinned down at his phone as the train sped smoothly along, a faint, relaxing hum providing the soundtrack to the journey, and the liquid sunlight splashing him in the face through fingerprinted windows. His generic half-full overnight bag bounced gently on the seat beside him and he was tempted to pull out his maroon cardigan – despite the almost unbearably hot and sticky temperatures over the last week, with all the narrow pull-down windows in the carriage open, the buffeting breeze in the train was distinctly chilly.

 **Have to gi** **ve Keith backtomorrow :( might be able to talk Adrian i** **nto**   **letting me keep him longer you’d like him hes very friendly – SH**

John promptly received a photo message of Sherlock cuddling the skunk to himself like a cat, nuzzling into its fur with a silly grin on his face. His pale grey-green eyes were covered by thick lab goggles, and in the background John could see a Bunsen burner’s blue flame on the kitchen table. The detective was clearly topless and John wouldn’t be surprised if he was sauntering around the flat completely naked. He thought it would be too much to hope that Sherlock wouldn’t inadvertently add to the collection of faint scars and burns on his chest and arms.

  
**Talk to who? And don’t think im going to let you keep that thing friendly or not – JW**

 

**Adrian the guy who lent him to me. He rescues exotic animals – owed me a favour – SH**

**  
Is there anyone who doesnt owe you a favour – JW**

**  
David bowie – SH**

**  
?! – JW**

**  
i like david bowie :) – SH**

**  
You never cease to surprise me - JW**

**  
Feelings mutual. – SH**

**  
How do you even know who that is – JW**

**  
dont be silly hes a legend – SH**

**  
fair enough… what are you up to – JW**

**  
putting things inside me – SH**

**  
… - JW**

**  
and I mean exactly what you think I mean – SH**  
**if I mis-spell anything its because im one handed and my concentrations not 100 percent – SH**

**  
**

John knew very well that Sherlock was goading him, but he couldn’t resist responding.

  
**things like what? – JW**

  
**big things – SH**  
**BIG things – SH  
wish you were here – SH**

  
**Me too – JW**  
**Whats with the Bunsen burner then – JW**

**  
Was heating up some cat food for keith – SH**

**  
Whats wrong with the microwave? – JW**

**  
Its got donkey sperm in it – SH**

  
**……I don’t want to know – JW**  
**and why the goggles? – JW**

**  
make me look cool - SH**

**  
if you say so. listen will you do something for me – JW**

**  
depends – SH**

  
**dont get yourself off till I come home I want you desperate – JW  
I want you a complete wreck and I wont let you come til I say you can - JW**

**  
oh john – SH**

**agreed? – JW**

**you are a very bad man – SH  
but okay – SH**

**But if you are late I will have to have sex with molly repugnant as the idea is – SH**

**bet she wouldn’t turn me down – SH**

**  
dont you dare – JW**

**  
jealous? – SH**

  
**yes, very – JW**  
**that dicks going nowhere except inside me – JW**

**  
…I love you john – SH**

**  
I know. you too. x- JW**

**  
Mrs Hudson booked us a surprise dinner @ posh new restaurant down the road Thai – SH**

**  
That’s nice. If it’s a surprise how do you know about it – JW**

**  
Please – SH**

  
Somehow, in a single word on a small screen, the detective’s condescension and rolling eyes were transcribed perfectly, and John could practically hear the sarcastic baritone in his head.

  
**Hows the tattoo – JW**

 

**Oh fine. Should be healed in a few days – SH  
I have put away the BIG things I was experimenting with. I expect a good seeing to later – SH**

**  
Don’t worry youll get one – JW**

**  
Got to go. Keith says bye x – SH**

 

**See you later remember the promise – JW**

**  
I know hands off. You too no clandestine wanking in your office – SH**

**  
I can tell you now I will never get off in my office – JW**

**  
We’ll see ;) – SH**

* * *

  
After the lengthy but pleasant train journey, John stopped by the flat just long enough to dump his overnight bag, have a quick shower and get changed. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but in the kitchen, ‘Keith’ was fast asleep on a pink bean bag that John had never seen before. He gave the creature a wide berth, stumbling over the treadmill that seemed to take up half of the (already-cluttered) living room as he went to his laptop and quickly checked his blog. Much as he wanted to see the detective, he knew that he would have next to no chance of getting away from 221B anytime soon if he lingered here, given his partner’s apparently off-the-scale horniness.

Leaving Sherlock a small note on the kitchen table, he grinned mischievously and headed out to the surgery, stopping off for a coffee and a brownie on the way.  
~*~*~  
Swooping into the flat ten minutes after John had vacated it, Sherlock peered into the kitchen, saw that the skunk was peacefully sleeping, and deposited the huge and heavy medical transport box he had been lugging around onto the sturdy yet scarred kitchen table. Opening the tightly sealed chilled container, he gingerly lifted out the plastic packs that Molly had donated to him – a fascinating medley of vitiligo-inflicted hands and feet. He expected that John would tell him that he had been damned lucky to have obtained them after his earlier exchange with the long-suffering technician. He grinned at the memory.

  
“So…Sherlock…how’s John? Still away?” She had asked in that cautious, saccharine way of hers, her smile sweet and her big brown eyes hopeful.  
“Molly,” he had responded abruptly without looking at her as he fiddled with his phone, “I have been instructed not to let myself orgasm until he returns, and I am so tightly wound I may spontaneously ejaculate at the merest mention of his name, so it’s probably in your best interests not to do so.”  
He had seized his specimens and swept from the lab, leaving her blushing and open-mouthed behind him.

  
Now, his pale grey-green eyes were caught by the note written in John’s neat handwriting (certainly unusual for a doctor) and he glanced down at it.

_‘Have to pop over to Harry’s after work might stay over if it gets late x’_

Sherlock hissed in a sharp breath, tripping in his haste to get to the front door, muttering to himself murderously. “No you _bloody_ don’t…”  
In less than a minute, he was in a taxi, itching with irritated anticipation, scowling at nothing as he sped towards his unsuspecting army doctor.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was quarter to four in the afternoon when John got to the surgery, and the lowering sun was oozing out delightful soft spears of golden light, the heavy air a much more pleasant temperature, and birthing sumptuous cool shadows here and there. He had a quick catch-up chat with Sarah, who must have been flustered but managed to look as unruffled and sweetly pretty as ever, before making his way through the busy, but luckily not over-crowded, surgery. He, Sarah and two others were the only doctors present, and he steeled himself for a hectic afternoon. He had made it abundantly clear though, that he wouldn’t stay any later than seven. Though he had been teasing Sherlock about staying the night at Harry’s (that had happened only twice before and probably never would again), he nevertheless had to swing by to pick up the detective’s gift. Whilst he wasn’t especially garrulous about his private life, it was generally known that Sherlock and he were together, and Sarah’s well-wishes regarding their anniversary had been one of many from various friends and acquaintances.

  
The receptionist, who had treated him with icy aloofness ever since the unfortunate falling-asleep-at-his-desk incident on his first day at work, nodded at him abruptly and continued placating a single mother who looked no older than seventeen, complaining loudly and clutching an overweight baby that was currently gumming on chicken nuggets held in a pudgy hand.

Getting into his office, he cracked his knuckles loudly before settling into his chair, switching on his desk fan, and logging on to his computer.

 

* * *

 

  
Ten minutes later, his first appointment was over, a middle-aged woman who was concerned about a mole on her shoulder. He had assured her of its benignity and gave her a friendly goodbye before accessing his computer files. He heard the door to his office open and shut as she left, and he prepared to allow himself a few minutes before buzzing in his next patient.

He typed a few notes ploddingly into his computer, dark blue eyes fixed intently on the screen, his tongue pressed against his thin top lip in concentration. The horizontal shafts of glowering sunlight were creating a hazy reflection on his dusty screen, so he groaned and stood, adjusting the blinds behind him, creating a pleasant sunny gloom in which the fan whirred noisily. Turning to seat himself once more, he started violently at the sight of the tall, black, silent ghoul across the room.

“ _FUCK_ , Sherlock! You scared the _bloody_ life out of me,” John heaved, sitting down in his chair once more, rubbing his head and glaring as angrily as he could at the detective, who, it had to be said, looked drop-dead gorgeous.

  
Sherlock wore a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his typical black dress trousers. His glossy hair was clean but looked very dishevelled, mussed up and wild-looking with a few curious tendrils twirling up into the air like little black vines. His porcelain-white skin showed just the faintest hints of wetness at the tip of his nose and his forehead, and there was a tiny dampness around his hairline, testament of the heat of the day and Sherlock’s obvious state of mind. His chest, which always looked so much thinner in his tailored shirts than when he was topless, rose and fell with unusual rapidity. His eyes were on fire.

“Three second warning John,” he murmured enigmatically, before crossing the small room in a few strides, vaulting onto John’s desk and crawling across it to seize the seated doctor’s face with two hot, damp hands for a vicious kiss. John was stunned for a few searing seconds into replying, before he heard the tell-tale sound of Sherlock pulling the zip of his own flies down in one desperate movement.

John managed to prevent Sherlock from devouring him, shoving his angular face away, his skin very warm to the touch, just as there was a knock on the door. The receptionist walked in with a haughty expression on her face. “I’m sorry Doctor Watson, he just stormed in…” She trailed off as the detective got off the desk (with surprising elegance for one so blatantly aroused) and turned to fix his gaze on her, as sharp and cold and green as iced absinthe.

  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John managed, astounded that his voice sounded as threatening as it did despite his own shock and embarrassment. He felt the place under his skin burning and had no doubt that his blushes would challenge Rudolph for illumination. “…He’s just leaving,” he muttered to the receptionist, who stared at the frankly dangerous-looking man in front of her, whose flies were half-undone and the tent in his trousers impossible to ignore. She knew of Sherlock and now was able to put a face to the name. A pale, alien face with striking eyes and a supercilious expression. Quickly getting her composure, she glared at the tall intruder over the top of her glasses and spoke in an imperious voice. “Doctor Watson has a lot of work to do, would you kindly leave and take this… _depraved_ behaviour with you?”

Sherlock said nothing for a few moments, and then cocked his head inquisitively, and John groaned, knowing what that simple movement meant. Before he could say a word to dissuade the detective, he had already started rattling off his deductions.

  
“Depraved? Let’s see…” He was standing in front of the woman within a few long strides, and proceeded to lean in and take a deep sniff, his eyes rolling up thoughtfully as he consulted the data in his mind palace.

“Yes…silicone based, lightly menthol-flavoured – that lubricant in particular is one specifically designed to create a tingling sensation during intercourse, a top-end brand, too. The perfume you wear is in fact a specific brand that contains pheromone extracts, meant to make you more attractive to the opposite sex. Both of these relatively hard-to-find items can be bought from the sex shop on the same road as the Honda garage whose keyring you have attached to the chain in your pocket.”

At this point, both John and the receptionist glanced down to the small bunch of keyrings dangling from the left pocket of her knee-length skirt.

“Incidentally, if that’s _your_ silver Honda in the car park, your tax disc is nearly overdue and the fluffy toys hanging from the rear-view mirror are truly repugnant. To be expected from a teenager, but a woman your age? You are obviously married, and quite happily by the looks of it – the ring is regularly cleaned and expensive looking – in fact, judging by the slight anomaly of the dents in your finger, I would say that until recently you wore a thinner ring – but he came into some money, and splashed out on that particular sparkler for you. Perhaps a significant anniversary then – 30 years, at a guess. I’m assuming the two of you made an energetic start this morning on your marital… _celebrations_ , only question is, will you be assuming your usual dominant roleplay position tonight, or skipping the chastisement and trite pornographic scripting or just get straight down to the fucking?”

Sherlock finished with a satisfied smirk. John let out a strangled gasp behind the hand he had clamped over his mouth, then a few seconds of electric silence stretched before the receptionist smacked Sherlock hard across the face with a deafening whack. The detective flinched in pain and then stared at her, as if stunned and confused by her action.

It had to be said that Sherlock believed in ‘an eye for an eye.’ And, he had no more qualms about hitting a woman than he did about hitting a man – he was also, after all, a believer and supporter of equality. Therefore, John had scrambled from his desk in just enough time to seize the pale hand that the detective had raised in anticipation of a hard retaliatory slap. The speechless receptionist, eyes filling up with shocked tears behind her glasses and her face drained to a sickly grey with spots of hot pink on her cheeks, turned and stumbled quickly from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock was breathing calmly, and he turned to John with a sweet grin as though absolutely nothing had happened. “Where were we?” he murmured seductively.  
He let out a faint noise of surprise as his doctor grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close with a rough tug. John’s voice was low as he muttered to the mystified-looking detective, whose nose was almost against his own.

“God help me Sherlock, if I get fired because of that…”

“People don’t like to hear the truth about themselves,” Sherlock shrugged innocently, before pecking John chastely on the tip of his nose. “Love you,” he smiled happily.

John pushed him away, sighing gustily, rubbing his face and shaking his head. “You humiliated her, Sherlock. Do you even _understand_ how out of order that was?”

“She said we were depraved. Just giving her a taste of her own medicine.”

“No, she said YOU were depraved, Sherlock,” John yelled, pointing a finger at the tall detective who pouted at the reprimand. “What were you thinking!? You would just waltz in here, fuck me over the desk in five minutes and then leave, job done?!”

“I was hoping three and a half minutes would be sufficient,” Sherlock said quietly, eyes lowered and thoughtful.

John gasped out a disbelieving laugh, dark blue eyes wide. “You are unbelievable.”

“Thankyou.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Really? Oh,” Sherlock pouted in surprise, looking a little hurt.

“Sherlock…” John approached him, taking a fortifying breath. “Later on, we are setting some ground rules.”

“We already have ground rules.”

“You just proved that we need more of them.”

“Oh.”

“…I want you to go home. Go anywhere. Behave until I get back – about half-seven. Play with your damned skunk. Keep out of trouble, try not to insult anyone, especially people we know, _especially_ people I work with, and I’ll forgive you. Deal?”

“...Fine.” Looking downcast, Sherlock ruffled his damp, wild curls and licked his cupid’s-bow lips. “…Can I have a kiss before I go?” he asked childishly.

Giving him a Look, John pulled him in for a warm, damp kiss, deepening it for a few seconds before pulling back. “There. Now sod off,” he said, face stern but eyes fond.

Sherlock brightened. “I love you,” he offered hopefully.

“I said _sod off_ ,” John chuckled, going back to his desk as the detective smirked and left his office, closing the door gently behind him.

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

Immediately after Sherlock’s departure from his office, John went to his window and watched the lanky detective leave, just to be sure. The cocky bastard had a taxi waiting for him – ‘three and a half minutes’ indeed. He watched the black cab roll away and out of sight.  
He then ventured out to offer his most grovelling apologies to the receptionist.  
Upon his return, the texts had started in earnest.

  
**Mrs Hudson asked me this morning why I havent proposed to you yet – SH**

  
Sighing, John tapped a reply before buzzing through for his next patient.

  
**What did you say – JW**

  
**That im waiting for you to do it - SH**

  
**Ha ha Sherlock. Got patients chat later – JW**

  
Ten minutes and a referral of an elderly man to a hospital later, John checked his messages again.

  
**BORED – SH**

**BOOOOOOORED – SH**

**hey we haven’t christened 221c – SH**

  
John huffed a little laugh, rapidly texting back.

  
**Probably because we don’t live there – JW**

  
**Details – SH**

  
**Anyway its mank in there – JW**

 

**…what is ‘mank’ – SH**

  
**Manky, you know cold, damp, nasty – JW**

  
**Youre no fun – SH**

  
**No what we should do is do it in Mrs hudsons flat when shes away – JW**

  
**Oh john – SH**

**really? – SH**

**you are very naughty – SH**

  
**You love it – JW**

  
**too true – SH**

  
There was a thoughtful thirty seconds before the next text arrived.

  
**I love you lots – SH**

  
John grinned warmly at Sherlock’s affectionate little announcement.

  
**Soppy bastard :) – JW**

  
**you say it – SH**

  
**Say what? – JW**

  
**that you love me – SH**

  
**Feeling insecure are we? ;) – JW**

  
**please – SH**

  
**Love you very much Sherl. Now let me work the sooner I finish here the sooner I see you – JW**

  
**Cant wait. x Oh! and john - keith had a bit of an ’accident’ earlier – don’t mention it in front of him tho I don’t want him to get embarrassed – SH**

  
**…you are utterly, utterly insane – JW**

  
**you did this to me you broke my brain and put a heart in there :) Youre not really staying w/harry tonight are you? – SH**

  
**Course not ;) but your presents there so have to pick it up. see you this eve x – JW**

  
**xxx – SH**

* * *

 

It was seven on the dot when John swiftly made his way from the surgery and into a sumptuously warm and heavy evening, onto a street inhabited by slow-moving, emphysemic, cars, buses and motorbikes. A wheezy, tired cacophony of beeps and revs and grunts met him with fond familiarity. The honeyed rays of lowering sun teased him with searing, tainted kisses; his dark blue eyes squinted in response, his skin prickled with heat.  
It didn’t take long for Sherlock to contact him again.

  
**John I cant hold it im going to explode – SH**  
**need to orgasm – SH**  
**right now – SH**  
**oh god - SH**  
**please please please please hurry up – SH**  
**youve got to help me, do something – SH**

  
With a flash of sudden inspiration and a fiendish grin, the doctor texted back one simple word.

  
**Mycroft. – JW**

  
There was a brief respite from the demanding texts. Then -

  
**…that worked. Im as deflated as a…deflated thing now – SH**

  
**Nothing like the thought of your brother to kill the mood stone dead eh – JW**

  
**quite – SH**  
**but youre just postponing the inevitable – SH**  
**and it feels a bit not good to be sitting here holding myself dripping everywhere and thinking of Mycroft – SH**

  
**Thirty minutes max ill be there don’t you dare come – JW**

  
**i try x – SH**  
**but I promise nothing – SH**  
**im going to have to do horrible, wonderful things to you john – SH**  
**horrible, awful, wonderful wonderful things – SH**

  
**Sherlock shh. Go play with keith. Get my present ready for me. How is keith anyway – JW**

  
**Oh it’s ready – your present is Very ready. Keith is okay I thought I could shut him in our room with some food and water while we’re busy – SH**

  
**Busy? ;) – JW**

  
**Yes busy having rampant crazy sex obviously – SH**

  
**And we wont be doing that in our room? – JW**

  
**Dull – SH**  
**i have thought of nine different locations that would be ideal for special anniversary love-making. When I say lovemaking I don’t necessarily mean sex though :) I want to treat you. x – SH**  
**only two locations are in the flat – 2 places we haven’t made physical love yet :) – SH**

  
John grinned helplessly to himself, finding himself still leaning against the wall of the surgery, frantically texting Sherlock.

  
**There are places we haven’t made love in the flat? :P – JW**

  
**yes trust me – SH**  
**it will be a long night…spend it all with me? - SH**

  
**Of course Sherlock. Look forward to it and don’t forget I have things for you too :) Ill see you before you know it x- JW**

  
**Xxx :) – SH**

  
Five minutes later, as John was on the bus, he got one more text.

  
**John, you might have to say ‘Mycroft’ again… - SH**

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta for all the reviews, glad you’re enjoying! You’re all so sweet, and your feedback makes me a very happy bunny :P  
> Looks like this fic is gonna be longer than I originally intended…ah well xD Updates may be speedier because I’m stuck in bed with a horrid cold and not doing much else than watching Midsomer Murders and drinking lemsips. XD  
> Warning for smut and slight breathplay. Also gratuitous Keith. :P

 

**Im on my way picked up your pressie from Harry x – JW**

  
**John if I hadn’t worked it out would you have told me that you shot the cabbie? – SH**

  
**…what has that got to do with anything? – JW**

  
**Just wondered – SH**

  
**You would have worked it out. I don’t know, I just needed to make sure you were safe wasn’t thinking bout much else – JW**

  
**Ta – SH**

  
**You’re welcome. ETA 5 mins x – JW**

  
**:)! xxx – SH**

  
Reaching 221B and mounting the stairs, he listened out for Sherlock, hearing nothing. He rubbed the back of one arm over his damp forehead, the sultry, London-tasting heat having barely lessened since he left work. He placed Sherlock’s neatly-wrapped gift on the kitchen table, sliding aside a collapsed pile of tins of cat food.

“Sherlock?” he called out, half-heartedly shifting petri dishes and old mugs round the table in an attempt to clear it a bit, but deciding that he really couldn’t be bothered.  
“In here,” came the detective’s clearly strained voice, shuddering through from the living room.

  
John quickly peeked round, letting out a small, breathy ‘oh.’

  
Sherlock was laying on the sofa, shivering faintly with some restrained physical effort. Breathing hard he stood up and faced John with heavy-lidded grey-green eyes, looking frankly ill with desire, his skin flushed a stark pink. His riotous curls were even more wild than they had been earlier, the near-black tendrils twirling up like plants seeking light. He was wearing red silk boxers which tented unmistakably. He was topless, but in the same rich red silk, he had wound a sash around his shoulders and across his chest, creating a large, flourishing, ‘unwrap me’ bow.

“ _Fuck fuck fuck_ ,” John whispered harshly, storming across the room and attacking Sherlock with a vicious kiss, ripping distractedly at the bow, tugging down at the red boxers. The detective let out a whine of utter relief, burying his face in the side of John’s warm neck. Seconds later, at the merest rough brush of his doctor’s hand across his wet tip, he promptly came all over John’s shirt with a vast shudder and a choked groan. Sherlock had always had a bit of trouble orgasming while standing up, and he staggered forward, leaning most of his weight on John even as he groped and bit at his neck with grateful fondness.

  
John grinned, listening to Sherlock gasp noisily near his ear, sighing out vague, wet noises of release.

“You don’t want me wearing this shirt to dinner then?” John teased, ruffling Sherlock’s thick, warm curls.

“Sorry,” came the muffled reply. The detective finally pulled back, holding his own weight, and gave John a wide, crinkly grin. The doctor smirked back, pulling at the silk ribbon until the bow came loose and drifted to the floor. He gently pushed Sherlock back onto the sofa, mounting him, nipping at his graceful throat, tasting his heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

  
Fifteen minutes later, John tugged the silk sash that he had wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s neck, just so, just at the tipping point where the detective hung treacherously. A few quick, hard snaps of his hips into the brunette, and they climaxed simultaneously – John groaning against Sherlock’s collarbone, the detective yelling deafeningly, face red, gasping for breath past the silken garrotte, nearly bucking them both onto the floor.

John sighed deliciously, pulling the tight ribbon from Sherlock’s neck and kissing his damp, darkly-flushed cheek.  
“So…presents, dinner, then more sex?” he asked playfully, watching the brunette wheeze strenuously.  
“…Couldn’t have put it better myself John.”

 

* * *

 

  
They snuggled on the sofa after they had cleaned up, swapping presents. John was a little concerned. Whenever Sherlock had bought him a gift, he tended to be one of those people who bought things that _they_ wanted, and the fact of offering said item to you was just a formality. Presents from Sherlock usually vanished and insinuated themselves into the detective’s own belongings within a week. Therefore, he wondered what sort of paraphernalia Sherlock had obtained for him. The heavy present was extremely badly-wrapped, with a few holes and rips, and bits of what looked like greaseproof paper patching over the shiny dark blue wrapping.

“What did it ever do to you?” John asked, eyeing an acid burn on the shambolic wrapping.

Sherlock pouted, making a small disgruntled noise. “I tried,” he grumbled.

“I’m kidding Sherl. It’s fine.”

He cautiously peeled open the wrapping, pulling out a large animal skull – it looked to be a wolf. It had something wedged in its mouth – a posh-looking bottle of massage oil. John chewed on his bottom lip, trying not to laugh.

Sherlock was smiling at him hopefully. “Thought the skull might like a pet,” he said, pointing at the human skull on the mantelpiece. “Like us.” He promptly crossed to the kitchen (wearing just his red boxers) where Keith was ambling around and making small chirruping noises. He scooped him up into his arms and nuzzled the thick black and white fur, positively beaming when the skunk gurgled out a small, presumably-happy noise.

“Let me guess. You bought him off that rescue guy.”

Sherlock cooed, rubbing his nose against the skunks, not looking at John as he answered. “Correct.”

“So that thing is our responsibility for the rest of its natural life.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Or more likely, _my_ responsibility when you get bored of looking after it.”

“I’m not a child, John.”

“You are, Sherlock. You are a huge, pouting, sulky baby and you know it.”

Sherlock just grumbled to himself, sitting down beside his doctor once more on the sofa. He held out the surprisingly-large mammal to him, and John very tentatively patted it on the head.

“…Thankyou for the present,” John told him honestly. “The oil looks…fun,” he grinned.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, then brightened further when John passed him his well-wrapped gift. The detective promptly deposited Keith in John’s lap, who winced and squirmed. Sherlock sniffed the box, shook it, felt its weight in his hands.

“You could just open it, you silly tosser,” John pointed out affectionately.

“Dull,” came the blunt reply. “But…the contents elude me,” he added thoughtfully.

“Be very careful with it, it’s pretty delicate,” John warned, gnawing his bottom lip.

Narrowing his gaze, the detective tore the paper and opened the box. John watched his grey-green eyes widen impossibly, his mouth making a surprised heart-shape.

“Oh John…it’s perfect…it’s fascinating,” he murmured, lifting out the object and peering at it from all angles. “I’ve never seen one before,” he admitted.

“You’re impossible to buy for, you know that,” John grinned, relieved. “And the amount of strings I had to pull to get that…”

“You have my gratitude. I shall put it in our bedroom, I think. I can examine it later on.”

“Don’t go ripping it to shreds for experiments, they’re not exactly easy to get hold of…”

“I understand. Thankyou John. Come, let’s go,” he said suddenly, taking John’s hand and yanking him off the sofa.

“Go where?” John managed as he was dragged speedily upstairs.

“I must thank you properly,” Sherlock grinned as he pulled him into their room and slammed the door, putting his new present on the dresser.

 

* * *

  
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock had thanked John very thoroughly indeed.

Watched, the whole time, by the little shrunken head on the dresser.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock curled up on the now-sheetless bed, very close to his doctor, toying with his left shoulder with spidery fingers. He leaned away for a second and languorously switched on the bedside lamp so he could observe it better. As Sherlock's fingertips ghosted over the scar, which was like a splash of curdled milk on the doctor's warmly tanned skin, John twitched uncomfortably. "Don't, you know it tickles."

Sherlock huffed a short laugh and kissed the scar affectionately before leaving it alone.

"We should probably get up if we're going to make that dinner," John said, slightly hoarsely – the incredible oral administrations from the detective over the past twenty minutes had left his vocal chords more than a little overworked. After Sherlock had dragged out the blow-job till John climaxed excruciatingly, the doctor had shakily moved to return the favour, only to find that the brunette had managed to quietly get himself off twice in that time and ensure that changing the sheets was an absolute necessity.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and smooched him lazily, pale grey-green eyes lightly closing. John responded for a minute, before he sensed the detective getting worked up again, his breathing rapid, his hand hooking across John's waist and pulling him rhythmically close so he could rut against him.

"I think you have a problem, Sherl," John announced with a smirk, easing away from him, sitting up against the headboard and stretching languidly. "I think you're addicted to sex."

"I know _exactly_ what my problem is, John," Sherlock drawled in a sultry, croaky baritone. "My problem is _you_."

"Wow, thanks," the doctor replied flippantly, rolling his eyes and grinning.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock murmured, a rumbling purr that vibrated from his lean, pale chest. He snaked up to straddle John's hips, wriggling playfully.

" _No_ way Sherlock, a hundred times no. And stop doing The Voice. I'm bloody hungry and if I could sustain existence by simply lying here and rogering you, I would, but sadly that's not the case. Therefore…"

He abruptly shoved Sherlock off of him, the detective bouncing beside him on the bed with a faint mewl of irritation.

"Just one thing though. Let's see it." John nodded vaguely at Sherlock's arm.

The detective looked baffled for a second, before grinning happily and pointing out the very small tattoo he had needled onto himself, no larger than a fingernail. It was faintly red but looked healthy.

"You're such an emo, Sherlock," John chuckled.

The brunette frowned and checked his hard drive, then shook his head, shrugging questioningly. "I don't know what that is."

"Never mind. The tattoo suits you," he told him, kissing the tiny inked spot and ruffling Sherlock's wild hair before getting up to find something to wear. Sherlock stood with a small groan, cracking his knuckles and yawning before pottering around looking for his purple shirt and trousers. He was half-way through putting them on when there was a faint squeaking and scratching on the bedroom door. John and Sherlock glanced at each other before the detective grinned widely, flinging open the door and letting Keith trot in on his short, sturdy little legs. Sherlock caught his own reflection in the mirror and pulled a disgruntled face, using both hands to smoosh down his unruly hair, eventually giving up on getting it any flatter than it was.

"I want you to cut my hair John."

"I know nothing about cutting hair," John said distractedly, doing up his jeans and shirt.

"I don't care. I would find it a huge turn-on."

John giggled at his bluntness. "You find everything a huge turn-on."

"Please?" Sherlock asked petulantly.

"We'll see."

Sherlock glanced at his new shrunken head, and after consideration placed it on top of the wardrobe temporarily, lest Keith see it as some sort of snack. John watched him stretch and grinned at the brief peek of white skin that showed under his tight dark shirt.

"Looking good, Sherl," he said quietly, hardly even realising that he had done so.

Sherlock turned and grinned his crinkly half-grin, looking John up and down predatorily, arching an appreciative eyebrow, but saying nothing. John chuckled warmly.

* * *

 

"You boys really need to keep the noise down, my sister could have been round, you know," Mrs. Hudson chided them as they traipsed downstairs, Sherlock behind John and holding his hand lightly. The tall brunette replied unabashedly.

"Could say the same for you, Mrs. Hudson, we can hear your vibrator through the living room floor…"

"Sherlock!" John reprimanded, hitting him not-so-lightly on the arm.

"Can't imagine what size it must be, sounds like a pneumatic drill…"

John silenced the unrepentant, innocent-looking detective by whacking him hard on the arm again.

Blushing, but relatively unfazed, their landlady glared at Sherlock, who rubbed his aching arm thoughtfully, before speaking to John. "I would have expected you to have trained him better by now, John."

"It's a lengthy process, Mrs. Hudson. Thankyou so much for the dinner. You didn't have to treat us."

"It's no problem, boys. Behave yourself, and don't worry about the skunk, I'll keep an eye."

Sherlock grinned and kissed her fondly on the cheek, before following his doctor obediently out the door and into the balmy, darkening evening.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

“…gonna have to ban you from sex for a week as punishment. Not even those breakfast hand-jobs that you like so much, or -”

John trailed off, a few steps from the front door, as he found himself staring at Mycroft, who gazed down at him with an oily smile.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson…Sherlock,” he added knowingly after giving his brother a half-second deductive inspection.

“… _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock grimaced, spitting out the name like it was cyanide. The air outside the flat was almost tropically hot, but instead of clean, wet humidity in the air, it was seasoned with dry fumes and the sticky tiredness of a long London day. Sherlock’s feral curls were already seeming to wilt, and the hand that held John’s was warm and damp. The sky was wounded a rusty reddish-orange, and its lowering light picked out the faintest sheen on Sherlock’s milk-white skin.

The elder Holmes leant on his ubiquitous umbrella, and John couldn’t help but glare up at the cloudless, darkening, summer-stung sky hintingly. Behind Mycroft, the sleek dark car loomed like a merry hearse, and his pretty assistant could be seen through the open window of the back seat, eyes down and thumbing intently through her smartphone. John was willing to bet that she was playing Angry Birds or something, as opposed to scheduling important governmental meetings.

Getting over his fleeting embarrassment, John cleared his throat. “Mycroft, evening. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing’s ‘up,’ Doctor Watson,” the impeccably-suited man replied silkily. “I was just…in the area…” He waited with a patient smile while Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed melodramatically at this patent lie, “…and merely wished to congratulate you both on your little landmark.”

Still holding Sherlock’s hand lightly, John felt the detective twitch.

“Two cupcakes in the last hour, Mycroft? You’re losing control,” Sherlock needled him, eyes narrowed fiendishly.

“Four orgasms in the last hour, Sherlock? You’re losing control,” Mycroft replied with smug alacrity.

Sherlock eyes widened and he actually went silent, swallowing quietly, while John’s jaw dropped and he stared at the man who, every now and then, could be even more disturbingly all-knowing than his little brother.

“I would warn you against such…over-exertion, but seeing as this is your _first_ sexual relationship, you probably have vast reserves to draw upon,” the elder Holmes continued, somehow sounding catty yet refined at the same time.

John didn’t know how Mycroft did it, but his teasing always managed to stay in the realm of ‘obnoxious older brother’, rather than venturing into outright cruelty. He glanced at Sherlock, whose sharp cheekbones were bruised with cold pink embarrassment, his features tense.

“Mycroft, aren’t you a bit old for these playground bully tactics?” John asked irritably, giving Sherlock’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. “You’ve made your point, and we’re running late. Goodnight.”

Mycroft smiled fawningly, his dark eyes intense. “Goodnight, Doctor, Sherlock.”

As they walked away, John yelled back over his shoulder tetchily. “You _can_ call me John you know!”

They heard the car door close, and in a few seconds the sleek machine was passing them, joining the light traffic of Baker Street, and soon disappearing from view.

“Bloody wanker,” John muttered to himself, as he led Sherlock down the street. “What was the point in that?”

The detective sighed, his cheeks still stained pink. “He probably has a mind-numbingly dull case for me tomorrow. Conducting his tri-annual visit so I don’t forget he exists. As if I haven’t tried to do that already.”

John huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t know why he bothered to congratulate us. He’ll never get into your good books. It always ends up in childish bickering.”

Sherlock didn’t disagree. “My good books are very small. It’s a piece of paper of about three square inches, and there’s no room for my brother on it.” He was straight-faced.

John giggled, and then took a deep breath of London-tasting, delightfully-warm evening air. “Anyway –”

“He’s just trying to make a point,” Sherlock interrupted. “About my mother.”

“About your – was he? Your mother?”

“Yes. Trust me.”

John pressed him a little, seeking explanation, but the detective would say no more on the subject. The doctor got the feeling that he would elaborate later, when he was ready. Right now his grey-green, nebulous eyes were distant and his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, most likely in his Mind Palace, busily assembling a torture chamber for his brother underneath the main construction. It was fifteen minutes before Sherlock pointed out the Thai restaurant, brand new and inviting-looking, decked out in tasteful deep purple and gold. John could immediately tell it wasn’t the sort of place that did an all-you-could-eat dinner for twelve quid.

“You were wrong, by the way, about Freya,” the tall brunette said suddenly.

“I was – who the hell is Freya?” John mirrored Sherlock as the detective stopped a few feet from the eatery’s entrance, facing him.

“Mycroft’s assistant. She was actually working. You could see what she was typing from the movement of her thumbs,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John grinned his clownish grin, and it brightened his face wonderfully. It cheered Sherlock up with its simple honesty, and he couldn’t help but grin back, his pale face crinkling sweetly. He grinned even more when his doctor stood on tiptoes to give him a firm, damp kiss, before leading him into the restaurant.

* * *

 

“We have a table booked, for –”  
John didn’t get to tell the petite young Thai lady at the front any more, as she glanced at their joined hands, then nodded enthusiastically at them several times, flashing a delighted smile.

“Mister and Mister Holmes, yes, come this way,” she beamed in a charming accent, sweeping up two heavy menus.

“We’re not -” John started, just as Sherlock chuckled loudly in genuine amusement, nudging John to calm him down, and following the waitress as she hurried away through the sumptuously decorated restaurant, which bustled pleasantly with staff and diners alike.

“Cheeky, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said aloud thoughtfully, grinning.

John scowled, though his dark amusement showed through. “That woman – if she drops just _one_ more hint…”

“Ignore her John, she just wants grand-children.”

They both burst into loud laughter, Sherlocks’ deep and rumbling, Johns’ higher-pitched and less controlled. They got to the table and settled into their seats, still chuckling, and the waitress waiting patiently, smiling, before offering them the sturdy bamboo-bound menus.

When she asked if they would like any drinks, Sherlock turned to her and stunned John by asking something in perfect Thai. She flushed and nodded extravagantly, answering in what looked like the affirmative. He grinned and spoke a few more words and she beamed, bowing, before hurrying away.

John stared at him. “Every time I think you’ve stopped surprising me, I’m proved wrong,” he grinned. “What did you ask for?”

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes in a mischievous grin.

“Should I be worried then?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip to hide a laugh, and then started perusing his menu innocently.

“I’ll be worried.” John picked up his menu and gazed at it for a few seconds, before speaking quietly. “…Anyway, why should it be _your_ surname,” he smirked.

Sherlock glanced up at him and huffed a laugh, before flicking through the appetisers, licking his cupid’s-bow lips.

“…You’re welcome to use Watson. It’s all academic to me.”

“Sherlock, stop talking like marriage is inevitable.”

“…Isn’t it?” Sherlock smirked with this question, before studying his menu further.

“…I’d feel a bit of a hypocrite, getting married…it’s a religious sacrament, right? And I’m not exactly the holiest person in the world.”

“Plenty of ways to commit to someone without gods being involved. Ooh, Tom yum goong.” Sherlock grinned, swiftly eyeing the rest of the menu before closing it and dumping it on the table.

John gave Sherlock a Look, before deciding on his choices and settling back in his chair, grinning.

The restaurant was opulently, but not extravagantly decorated – wooden carvings, large oriental palms, sumptuously intimate lighting envisioned in dozens and dozens of tiny bulbs, bunched in honeycomb clusters. There was a candle on the table, ensconced in a deep-purple glass bowl, with which Sherlock was fiddling curiously. The buzz and chatter and clatter of the full restaurants’ customers and staff was comforting in its organised chaos.

“Sherlock, I – oh, fuck,” John muttered, as the wine bottle was brought to the table. The detective brightened and grinned happily, thanking the waitress in perfect Thai as he took the bottle in hand.

“Sherlock…there’s a…fucking snake in that bottle.”

“Indeed. Thai snake wine, it really is marvellous, the dead reptile does in fact add to the taste, gives a certain sweetness. It’s quite a lot stronger than regular wine so take it easy,” Sherlock winked, pouring John a glass of the yellowish alcohol.

“…Sherlock?”

“Mm-hm?”

“I fucking love you.”

Sherlock chuckled, taking a sip of the potent wine and licking his lips.

“Feeling’s mutual.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops sorry, smut next chapter ;) Anyone else had snake wine? XD Scorpion vodka is nice too ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Public smut and breathplay ;) and an impossibly badly-behaved Sherlock ;)

 

“John?”

“Sherlock?”

“I need to have sex with you. Soon.”

John sighed, glaring around the restaurant. Sherlock licked his cupid-bow lips, shifting awkwardly in his seat. His milk-white skin was slightly flushed, his grey-green eyes dilated. He _did_ look desperately aroused.

They had just ordered, poured a glass of snake wine each, had a few sips of the strong, bittersweet alcohol, and were waiting for their starters. The buzz and clatter and close atmosphere of the Thai restaurant was picking up in a wonderful cloud of heat and noise and high-class fervour.

“You don’t _need_ to have sex, Sherlock.”

“Well not necessarily intercourse, but one way or another, I need to orgasm within the next five minutes or I’ll explode right here.”

“No you _don’t_!” John hissed.

“…Do you want to touch it?”

“ _No_.”

“Are you sure? It wants to touch you.”

“Go and sort yourself out in the bathroom. And don’t take too long about it,” John muttered irritably.

Sherlock sighed resignedly and got up, wandering away through the restaurant. Making his way into the empty toilets, he got into one of the cubicles and quickly unzipped, taking himself in hand and rubbing quickly, leaning back against the cubicle wall. He froze when he heard somebody else enter thirty seconds later, and he held still, breathing hard, listening to their movements.  
“It’s just me Sherlock. Open the door and let’s get this over with,” he heard John call out.

With a delighted huff of laughter, Sherlock yanked open the door and found himself immediately slammed back against the cubicle wall once more, taken in hand, and rubbed fast and firm. The doctor kicked the door shut again, and smooched the detective sloppily.

“I’ve got you Sherlock,” John whispered, in between quick, messy kisses. “Let it out. Let go.”

The detective gripped John’s shoulders for dear life, head going back sharply against the cool cubicle wall, a strangled moan sounding from his exposed throat, where John began nipping and sucking feverishly as he worked with a devastating rhythm, the surface where Sherlock leant shaking with the effort.

Very soon Sherlock shakily grabbed John’s free hand, pulling it up to his face. Knowing what was being requested, the doctor firmly pressed his hand smotheringly over Sherlock’s nose and mouth. With a grateful nod, the detective shuddered, choking wetly as he began to climax, face reddening, chest hitching desperately. A throaty, warning groan rumbled from the brunette, and John shifted slightly, allowing Sherlock room to ejaculate with shocking force, spattering the opposite wall, as a look of exquisite agony twisted the detective’s damp, bright-red face.

Ten seconds later, the main shocks abating, Sherlock tapped a wobbly, wet hand over John’s, and the doctor allowed him to breathe again, huge, gusty gasps. The pale grey-green eyes looked completely dazed and John ruffled the shell-shocked detective’s hair fondly.

“I know why _you_ looked so gutted that the Golem got away that time,” he smirked. Sherlock frowned at him quizzically, and the doctor giggled. “Clean up after yourself and I’ll see you in a minute.” With that, he left the stall, with Sherlock leaning, panting and trembly against the cubicle wall.

 

* * *

 

  
Sherlock looked reasonably recovered, just a little tired, as he slipped back into his seat with a groan a few minutes later.

John smirked to himself as he drank more wine, seeing their starters being brought in from the kitchen.

“Even _I_ thought that Golem joke was in pretty poor taste, John,” Sherlock announced as he downed wine, their starters placed on the table.

John picked up his cutlery as the waiter disappeared, Sherlock continued in his loud, rumbling baritone. “I don’t know if you remember, but he was trying to kill me, not deliver a mind-blowing orgasm.”

John froze, seeing the couple on the nearest table glare over at the completely-indifferent detective.

“Stop talking about sex when people are trying to eat,” the doctor hissed, poking into his starter, feeling the heat rise in his face. Sherlock glanced deadpan at the nearby diners.

“They’re just jealous because they don’t have a lover who can bring them to such utter pleasure that they can ejaculate eight feet.”

There were definite gasps and curses from the fellow diners, and Sherlock winced as John kicked him hard under the table.

“Sherlock shut up! I don’t wanna get thrown out of here before I’ve even eaten! What’s Mrs. Hudson gonna think if we’re back hours early?”

“I imagine she’d say that I got horny and couldn’t stop myself trying to take you across your hot and sour soup. And she’d probably be right.”

“Don’t touch me, Sherlock,” John replied dangerously, stabbing a pointed finger at the detective. “Touch me, and I will break your wrist.”

“I might have more trouble getting you to climax with a broken wrist, John.”

“One word. One more word, and so help me. Use that pretty mouth to eat, not humiliate me in posh restaurants,” he glared, a dark and serious expression on his face.

Sherlock shrugged innocently, opened his mouth as if to speak, and he saw John tense. Smirking, he shovelled a steaming forkful of rice in, instead. He chewed thoughtfully, then gestured at the food, before giving a thumb’s up, smiling happily.

With one more Look cast at his insufferable partner, John began to eat.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Domestic ;) well, are you surprised? XD

Sherlock managed to behave himself through the starters, but was beginning to seriously try John’s patience again by the mains. The detective kept rooting around and picking things out of his curry, spearing the items on his fork and peering at them closely. At one point he stabbed at a piece of lemongrass and examined it, unimpressed.

  
“It’s not very fresh.”

  
John glanced up at the offending foodstuff and then sighed and rolled his eyes as Sherlock promptly pushed the vegetable into the flame of the candle on their table, and watched it burn, eyes narrowed.

  
“Stop playing with your food, Sherl.”

  
There was a non-committal noise of reply, and Sherlock just prodded at the half-finished meal in front of him. John was glad that he had eaten as much as he had, to be fair. The brunette plonked one elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand, sighing dramatically.

  
“Bored?”

  
Sherlock nodded vaguely, pouting.

  
“I’m nearly done, then we can go. You don’t have to be so blatantly impolite though.”

  
Sherlock grudgingly sat up straight again, and reached for the bottle of snake wine. Pouring them two glasses, he shook out the final drops onto the tablecloth before trying to stick his fingers in the neck and retrieve the coiled green snake from within.

  
John eyed him, but carried on eating, knowing the sooner he finished, the sooner he could get Sherlock away and safe from public interactions and further personal embarrassment.

  
“I have something planned for you when we get back…a surprise…” Sherlock said distractedly, shaking the bottle, scowling in frustration. “Can’t…get it out.”

  
“Just take the whole bottle then,” John told him, draining the rest of the wine slowly.

  
“Don’t want the bottle,” Sherlock grumbled. He looked pensive for a moment, and then brightened up with a dangerous glint in his pale eyes.

  
John saw this and immediately worried. “Whatever you’re planning Sherlock, _don’t_ do-”

  
There was an almighty, deafening crash of glass as Sherlock lifted back his arm and brutally smashed the bottle on the solid table. There were loud screams and gasps in the instant lull of the restaurants’ diners and staff, as the detective obliviously fished the snake out of the cascade of broken shards on the table, with a triumphant grin on his face. He carefully coiled it once more and slid it into his trouser pocket. He beamed at John but his face fell in instant fear at the look of thunder on his doctor’s face.

  
“That’s _it_ ,” John growled quickly, downing the glass of wine that Sherlock had poured for himself, getting up, kicking glass shards across the floor as he seized Sherlock’s arm, hauled him up from the table and dragged him quickly out of the restaurant, stared at by everybody within.

  
John pulled him down the road in stony silence in the dark, hot evening for a minute, hand latched painfully tightly onto a slim wrist, before stopping on a quiet pavement and then shoving the detective hard in the chest.

  
“What the _FUCK_ , Sherlock!” He yelled. “Do you have a death wish or something?! Because I’m _this_ close to killing you!”

  
The tall brunette looked confused and a little lost. “It was only a bit of glass. That’s what they have cleaners for,” he shrugged.

  
John stared at him in total disbelief, before rubbing his eyes and shuddering out a sigh. “Do you actually want me to leave you, Sherlock? Is this all just some passive-aggressive fuckery in the hopes that I just give up on you and walk out? Do you know what it feels like to know that you never listen to a _fucking_ word that I say?!”

  
 _Uh-oh_ , Sherlock thought. _Spectacularly not good._

  
“I didn’t… _mean_ to. I love you,” he said simply, his worried eyes scanning John’s face, examining his voice and trying with difficulty to decipher everything he found.

  
“ _Do_ you?” John spat back, eyebrow raised dubiously. “You could’ve blinded me in there, but that’s of no consequence to you, is it? As long as I’ve got a mouth to suck you off with whenever you fancy it, that’s all you care about!”

  
“No…” Sherlock moaned quietly, his eyes welling up a little. “No, John…that’s not…” He frowned in frustration, took a deep, sticky breath. “ …I _want_ you to be happy with me.”

  
“Well I’m _not_ fucking happy, Sherlock.” John took in a long, shaky breath, physically trembling with anger. Rubbing his face, he tried to calm down a bit. He had never yelled at Sherlock like this before, but there was only so much his patience could take.

  
“I’ve forgiven you for an awful lot over the years. An _awful_ lot. Sometimes I just never know if you do this stuff because of your…” - he made a twirly gesture by his own head – “…mental problems…Or if you have nothing wrong with you at all, and you’re an arrogant fuck who just takes me for granted because I’ve got the patience of a fucking saint and I let you get away with doing absolutely anything you want…Oh…” he added quietly at the end, because it was at that point that he saw something that he had never, ever seen - Sherlock burst into tears.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock’s fist pushed against his own mouth and he hissed in a few sharp, wet breaths, tears streaming from his tightly-closed eyes, before sobbing gratingly.

  
“Oh Jesus Christ, Sherl…” John grabbed him and hugged him as hard as he could, running one hand, with a fervour and speed that neared violence, through his soft, dark curls. Sherlock’s sobs were deep and wracking, but infrequent – John could tell he was trying to hold his breath to stem them; and his body was shaking hard with the effort.

  
Sherlock bit down viciously on his own knuckle, breaking the skin, swallowing down swollen, wet gasps. His chest heaving intermittently and massively against John’s, he focussed entirely on stiffening his body to calm trembling muscles, to resist the tears, to release the bitter, hot constriction in his throat.

  
“Sherl…Sherl,” John soothed over and over, one hand still possessively rummaging through the detective’s hair, the other tight around his waist, heart breaking at the desperate, rending sobs that occasionally burst from Sherlock, who was trying his best to muffle them.

  
“Sherl…sweetheart…” John kissed the wet, tear-streaked fist that was held, white-knuckled and trembling in front of Sherlock’s mouth, and tightened his arms around his detective’s shoulders, kissing his neck repeatedly, listening to the faint, bubbly breaths and strangled noises as Sherlock tried valiantly to stop crying.

  
“…I’ve only…cried…” Sherlock sniffed wetly, struggling to speak past brutal, choking heaves of air, “…th...three times…in my…life,” he gasped, breath hitching and body still trembling.

  
“Shhh,” John whispered, holding him protectively tight, planting random kisses in his hair as Sherlock buried his warm, damp face in the crook of his neck.

  
“…I’m …sorry,” Sherlock heaved shiveringly, his deep, rumbling voice muffled. “For…for not being…what you -”

  
“Sherl, quiet now, it’s alright. It’s all fine,” John interrupted in a quiet murmur, rubbing Sherlock’s back comfortingly.

  
They stood for a few minutes, Sherlock gradually calming, John constantly hugging him, planting random comforting kisses. Nightfall was upon them, and the hot evening air had finally cooled by a degree or two.

  
“…Sherlock?” came the gentle query.

  
The detective inhaled a huge, shuddery breath, then pulled back with an effort, pale eyes avoiding John as he hurriedly knuckled the tears from them.

  
“Sherl, do you want to go home?” John asked, stroking a blood-heated cheekbone fondly, as the detective fidgeted and stared down at the ground.

  
“You’ve never called me …” Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, pawing at his damp eyes and cheeks again with long, pale hands before continuing - “…sweetheart before.”

  
“Do you…like it?”

  
“I could learn to,” Sherlock grinned weakly, scrubbing his face once more time before casting his pale eyes upwards at the comfortingly-congested dark sky and taking another large breath. “I’m sorry.”

  
John took Sherlock’s pale, angular face in both hands, and leant up to kiss him on his pretty cupid’s-bow mouth. “I think we’ve _both_ had too much fucking snake wine,” he smiled. “Let’s go home.”

  
“John, I, um…” Sherlock interjected, ruffling his own wild, dark hair, licking his lips nervously. “I have…I still have something for you. Back at the flat. It’s not…” he cleared his throat again, adjusting his dark shirt and tapping one foot agitatedly. “It’s...I hope you like it. It’s…” He went quiet, frowning, trying to put his speeding, convoluted feelings into words, the scream of emotions in his head almost impossible to tether and organise.

  
“Show me,” John murmured, taking hold of Sherlock’s hands with his own and squeezing affectionately – the touch was like a much-needed circuit breaker, and Sherlock focussed instantly, nodding, before hesitatingly leaning towards his doctor’s mouth, not touching, just breathing, the tension in him clear in his rapid exhales, his cautious grey-green eyes that questioned John’s.

  
The doctor smiled briefly and pulled him into a hard, passionate kiss, thrilling at the soft groan that rumbled from Sherlock, at the hands that immediately found his face, smoothing warm thumbs across his temples and into his ash-brown hair. There was a faint, relieved huff from Sherlock as the kiss deepened, his slender white fingers clutching reflexively as he sunk into the intense kiss, tongues mating roughly and mouths beginning to collide with less grace and tenderness and more violence and need.

  
“John…… _John_ ,” Sherlock managed, pulling away from his eager doctor with a loud smack of lips, his heart-shaped mouth slightly swollen and his sculptured cheeks flushed. “…I want to wait.”

  
John raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. “ _You_ want to wait?” He said this with a fond smirk.

  
Sherlock nodded, his pale eyes staring into John’s with utmost sincerity, the area around his eyes still puffy from crying, his lips slightly parted.

  
The doctor’s breath caught a little, before he replied. “Okay Sherl. We’’ll have a chat later, okay? About…about this.”

  
Sherlock nodded once more, his wild black curls bouncing a little. “I love you.”

  
“Love you too. More than anything.”

  
“Oh…um…John?”

  
“Mm-hm?” The doctor replied, peering quizzically at the nervous, crinkly grin on Sherlock’s sharp, sculptured face.

  
“…Is there a snake in my pocket, or am I just glad to see you?”

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

  
Sherlock held John’s hand tightly as they made their way back to 221B. The detective was distinctly quiet and distracted, and he lurked on the pavement in silence as the doctor opened the front door and let himself in. John glanced back, saw the tall brunette staring at nothing, arms crossed. The sticky, hot air barely moved and the sky was a deep, dark, dirty purple, pricked with indistinct stars and botched by a swollen full moon. Sherlock’s thick hair had wilted with the damp, grimy heat, but still, stray tendrils squirmed up into the air like tiny black vines. His skin had regained its’ almost supernatural paleness, and there was a faint sheen on his high cheekbones and hairline.

  
“Sherl?” John cocked his head, before touching a hand to the detective’s forearm. “ _Sherl_.”

  
Sherlock looked up sharply, startled. He took a quick, shallow breath, and strode past John, straight upstairs. John followed him after closing the front door, watching the detective disappear swiftly into their flat. When he arrived Sherlock was in the warmly-lit kitchen, filling the kettle and preparing two mugs of tea. Glancing around, he couldn’t see Keith anywhere, so he assumed he was with Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Sherlock’s shoulders were stiff and tense and he clearly had a lot on his mind.

  
“Sweetheart.” John stated, going up behind Sherlock, taking hold of his biceps, and turning him round gently but firmly, the detective’s pale grey-green eyes not meeting his.  
“Look at me.”

  
The taller man sighed and fixed his tired-looking gaze on his doctors’ dark blue eyes.

  
“Are you sulking?”

  
“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said instantly, scowling and pouting indignantly.

  
“Well, there’s my answer,” John grinned. “Look…I’m not angry with you. I was a bit harsh, I’m sorry…Give us a kiss.”

  
Sherlock swallowed, glancing at the boiling kettle, and then giving John a quick peck on the mouth.

  
The doctor looked surprised, then grinned fiendishly, grabbing Sherlock’s shirt collar roughly. “Oh, I think you can do better than that…” He kissed the cupid’s-bow mouth as hard as he could, pressing up eagerly against the detective, one hand smoothing excitedly down Sherlock’s chest through his dark shirt, down over his flat stomach, groping teasingly at his hardening crotch.

  
Sherlock flinched and pulled back, pushing his doctor’s questing hands away.

  
“…What’s the matter? Don’t you want to? I mean, you’re…” John gestured vaguely at the rapidly-burgeoning hard-on between Sherlock’s legs, his expression worried.

  
“Look…John…I _want_ to make love to you. _Desperately_. But you have to trust me. I can’t, yet.”

  
John looked hurt and confused, so Sherlock rubbed his sore eyes in resignation and took one of the smaller man’s hands decisively.

  
“Follow me.”

  
Speedily, Sherlock led him from the flat, and downstairs, surprising John by going to Mrs. Hudson’s door and knocking abruptly.

  
In seconds, she answered, ushering them both in. “You all ready then Sherlock?” she winked, as Keith looked up from his comfortable perch on her sofa and squeaked.  
“Thankyou,” Sherlock offered politely as their landlady led them to the innocuous door at the back of her flat, unlocked and unbolted it, and let them both out in the warm evening air once more. John glanced around, baffled, before Sherlock tugged him in the direction of a slim metal ladder that led to the roof of their building. Giving his doctor a quick, reassuring kiss on the forehead, the lean detective started climbing, his expensive shoes clicking noisily on each narrow step. Wordlessly, John followed close behind.

 

* * *

 

  
When John got to the top, Sherlock graciously extended a hand and helped him up, then stood back, scratching his soft, near-black curls self-consciously.

  
“Oh my god,” John exclaimed quietly, looking around the flat roof. A massive, expensive-looking telescope caught his eyes first, angled up towards Londons’ nebulous night sky. About thirty large, creamy church candles were lit and guttering gently around the roof perimeter, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere. John wandered towards the middle of the roof, where a mattress had been set up, covered with several sheets, two oversized pillows and a huge, cosy-looking duvet.

  
“Sherlock…is this…?” John trailed off, turning back to the detective with wide, bright eyes.

  
“Just a…well…I thought we could spend some time up here. Just us.”

  
The doctor beamed, chuckling. “We’re camping out?”

  
“Well the temperature won’t drop much further, and it’s certainly not going to rain.”

  
John chuckled harder, his clown-like smile lighting up his face.

  
Sherlock pulled a face, frowning. “What?”

  
“It’s perfect, Sherlock.” John bit back his chuckles, going up to the detective and hugging him tightly.

  
Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Sherlock hugged him back, his expression relaxing, resting his chin in John’s ash-brown hair and nuzzling slightly.

  
“Light pollution will obscure our astronomical efforts quite a lot, but I got an excellent focus on the moon for you.”

  
“I’ve never actually used a telescope. Is it yours?”

  
“It’s been in storage, Mycroft dropped it round for me.”

  
“It’s frickin’ huge, how did you get it up here?”

  
“Mycroft’s lackeys occasionally have their uses,” Sherlock smirked.

  
“So…after we’ve done some star-gazing...then we can…you know?” John asked teasingly. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

  
“Well…we could…do that first, if you like,” Sherlock smiled, giving John an extra tight squeeze, feeling the doctor huff with laughter once more. “I wanted to make it last, and whilst a quickie in the kitchen can be delightful, it’s not what I had in mind for tonight. I thought,” the detective continued, clearing his throat, “…we could do it…the way you like it best.” He pulled back and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  
“Oh…Sherl,” John’s dark blue eyes widened, before he grinned clownishly. “In that case, we’d better do the star-gazing first, because once I get into bed with you, I won’t want to get out.”

  
Sherlock gave him a delightful, crinkly grin. He picked up a large bottle of water that he had left at the base of the telescope and took a deep swig, offering it to his doctor.

  
“You’ll be glad of hydration after I’ve finished with you,” he teased. John gratefully took a few swallows, and Sherlock ushered him toward the telescope.

  
“I’ll show you how it works.”

 

* * *

 

  
“Oh _wow_ …look at _that_ ,” John muttered in awe as he peered into the eyepiece. Sherlock flushed happily at the appreciative noises that his doctor made every few minutes, as he adjusted dials and moved the focus over the surface of the moon at the incredible zoom that the telescope provided.

  
“God, that’s amazing… _Jesus_ , this is fantastic…”

  
Sherlock grinned to himself with pride as John finally pulled back from the telescope, gazing up at the moon with wide blue eyes.

  
“I’ve got a waterproof cover for it, we can leave it up here and tomorrow night I can show you Mars and Venus,” the detective offered.

  
“Sounds great, Sherl,” John grinned. “How…how much is that monster worth? Must be a few bob - swear I could see the fucking martians wandering around with it.”

  
Sherlock shrugged. “It was a gift from my parents, years ago. Worth about fifteen thousand, probably.”

  
“ _Fuck_ me.”

  
“I intend to.”

  
John chuckled, then yowled indignantly as Sherlock grabbed him, lifted him in one strong, decisive movement, his hands supporting his waist and backside as the detective strode to the makeshift bed.

  
“Put me down you _fucking_ bastard!” John yelled affectionately, before Sherlock dumped him unceremoniously on the mattress, sweeping aside the duvet, sitting astride his hips and leaning down to give him a deep, passionate kiss, his long pale fingers massaging through John’s short, ash-brown hair. On his back, John bucked up playfully against Sherlock, biting his baby-pink top lip hard, revelling in the deep, vibrating groan that rumbled from the detective.

  
Sherlock pulled back, grey-green eyes alight, and unpicked his own shirt. “Undress yourself.” A wonderful, cool night breeze suddenly swirled up across the altitudinous roof, and they both shivered excitedly.

  
John swallowed, sitting up, quickly undoing his shirt, yanking it off and throwing it away. As Sherlock’s hands pulled off his own shirt and his milk-white chest was exposed, John couldn’t help but surge forward and mark the skin with hard, wet suckles and tender bites.

  
“Oh, _god_ , John…lie…lie down,” the detective managed, breathing hard and grinding his hips vaguely against John’s.

  
John unpicked his own flies, biting his lower lip playfully, then pulled open Sherlock’s trousers. The detective was flushed pink, his grey-green eyes impossibly bright, as he leant down and snatched a vicious, desperate kiss from his doctor, hands roaming greedily over John’s chest, fingers flexing compulsively.

  
“Sherlock, take all your _fucking_ clothes off,” John managed, before groaning sharply as Sherlock bounced mischievously on his lap and bit at his throat with an animalistic growl.  
The detective then pulled away, smirking, getting off of his doctor and kneeling beside him, long, white fingers easing down his own waistband.

  
John hissed with excited laughter, pulling off his own jeans, kicking off shoes and yanking off socks and underwear, throwing the clothes across the roof, the displaced air from the discarded apparel causing the thick candles to flutter in the dark. Sherlock quickly stripped completely and laid down at John’s left side, beginning to palm him gently, whilst dampening his neck with constant wet smooches.

  
The doctor sighed gratefully, his eyes closing lightly as Sherlock rubbed him with practised ease. Ninety-five percent of the time, Sherlock was on the bottom when they made love, the detective citing his preference for the more intense experience. John also preferred being taken, but he rarely requested it and was happy enough to let Sherlock receive almost every time they had intercourse.

  
Sherlock rolled John a little so he was spooned up behind him. He scooped his right arm underneath the doctor’s torso, and pulled him close, grinning as John fumbled for his hand and held it tightly, their fingers netting together easily. He continued to stroke John gently with his left hand, swiping his thumb repeatedly over the warm moisture at his tip.

“Looking forward to this? Having me inside you?” the detective rumbled subsonically, his breath hot and damp against John’s nape.

  
“My _god_ ,” the doctor groaned, eyes closed and skin flushed in swollen anticipation. “I’ve needed this…”

  
“I’m your god? I’m flattered,” Sherlock teased, as he bumped his erection playfully against John’s backside, eliciting a breathy moan.

  
“Less talking, more shagging, Sherl,” the doctor sighed with a blissful grin. The detective smirked and let go of him, sliding one hand awkwardly under his pillow and pulling out a few items. He pushed a foil pocket into John’s free hand, and the doctor’s eyes opened in surprise.

  
“I thought you said - ”

  
“Less mess,” Sherlock explained with a small huff of laughter. “I’m not going back downstairs for more sheets. Open that one as well,” he ordered bluntly, tossing another one in front of his doctor.

  
John looked back at Sherlock, giving him a quick warning Look, before acquiescing, letting go of the detective’s hand long enough to rip open the condoms, rolling one onto himself and passing the other back to Sherlock. He once more took hold of the hand that was scooped under him and meshed their fingers firmly, giving a grateful squeeze.  
He sighed as a rogue breeze invigorated his bare skin for a few thrilling seconds, and shivered faintly, hearing the myriad candle flames flutter tremulously in the dark.

  
“…Um…” Sherlock’s baritone voice came out quiet and uncertain twenty seconds later.

  
“Sherl?”

  
“…I’ve never…um…I can’t get it on…”

  
John nearly giggled, but bit his lip to avoid embarrassing Sherlock further. Rolling over quickly, he met the detective’s deeply-blushing face, the stained skin making his eyes seem piercingly, hauntingly pale in contrast. He kissed him quickly, rolling on the condom and flashing an encouraging smile.

  
“I want to see you,” he whispered, laying back on the mattress and pulling Sherlock to lie atop of him, the detective trembling slightly, his lean, white body ethereally perfect under the purpling night sky and watery stars.

  
“T-tell me what you want,” Sherlock managed, licking his baby-pink lips, irrationally nervous about being able to pleasure John. It had been at least seven months since he had taken him.

  
“Kiss me. Everywhere.”

  
With a flurry of arousal, Sherlock obeyed with alacrity, kissing him on the mouth, deepening it with firm swipes of his tongue, before moving down, smooching at the hammering pulse in his throat, the creamy scar on his left shoulder, his rosy nipples, he nipped and sucked at his stomach. Meanwhile, he fumbled with the lube bottle, slicking up two of his fingers as he marked John’s thighs with insistent pressure from a heart-shaped mouth.

  
Pulling away and kneeling beside John, he carefully pushed one finger into the smaller man, sighing raggedly at the blood-hot flesh that instantly tightened possessively around him. With a few gentle thrusts, he crooked his finger and eventually hit his prostate, rewarded with a strangled groan from his doctor, a restless shift of his legs, and a hand scrabbling for his own, which was currently smoothing up and down John’s thigh as if he were soothing an excitable racehorse. Flushed with pride, Sherlock held his hand tight, as the doctor began to speak breathlessly.

  
“Feels…amazing Sherlock…god…” He licked his thin lips firmly and frowned with pleasure as Sherlock gently added another finger, thrusting into him with harder, faster, more determined movements.

  
“God…been…so long… _fuck_ ,” John heaved, his legs twitching and starting to shift even more, his heels skidding slightly over the mattress, his grip on Sherlock’s hand tightening painfully. His head fell back, eyes shut and creased with the effort of pleasure. Sherlock stared, enraptured, feeling himself leaking copiously and dangerously close to coming.  
“John, are you ready?” He asked with a hastiness born of desperation, his eyes wide and hopeful.

  
“ _Now_ , do it now,” came the choked reply, and the detective removed his fingers, slicking his shaft up as quickly as he could, kneeling between John’s legs and hoisting his heavy hips up, feeling the doctor’s strong thighs squeeze his waist greedily. He pushed into him with one long, slow movement, pale eyes squeezed tight, body shuddering and mind racing with the effort of holding back his climax as John’s drawn-out, deep-toned wail accompanied his intrusion into his blood-hot, writhing body.

  
Trying to distract himself, Sherlock grinned and attempted to speak.

  
“Did…you know that Uranus is four times bigger than the Earth?”

  
John’s hazy blue eyes opened in disbelief and he stared at Sherlock. He was darkly silent for a few seconds, before replying evenly. “…It’d had better be by the time you’re finished with it. Now…shut the fuck up and screw me,” he demanded, smirking, but impatience and hunger burning in his eyes.

  
The detective obeyed, beginning to pound into him, the considerable effort of forcing himself into the incredibly-tight body glorious. In thirty seconds he was panting, sweating, and aching with exertion. John mewled vaguely beneath him, hands going to his backside and hauling him forward as hard as he could with every thrust, forcing him deeper.

  
“ _God’s sake faster_ ,” the doctor seethed, head going back and face contorting delightfully.

  
Muscles screaming in protest, Sherlock smacked into him as brutally as he could, setting a violently quick pace, and John instantly keened in appreciation as wet skin slapped in a noisy, wild rhythm.

  
A minute later, the mattress squeaking with their rampant efforts, Sherlock’s wet hair bouncing vaguely with every thrust and his heart-shaped mouth leaking soft, gasping little noises, John’s fingertips dug painfully into the detective’s backside, and he went into spasming convulsions, grating out a long, desperate cry, face twisted in agony as he came harder than he had in half a year.

  
“ _Oh…oh fuck, fuck, fuck_!” John sobbed as he writhed out his climax, muscles jerking and his breath seized from him. With a whimper of relief, Sherlock finally allowed himself to follow suit, choking for breath as he orgasmed with a few irregular, awkward thrusts and long, pained sighs as the shocks absolutely wrecked him for twenty unbearable seconds.

  
John came down slowly, grinning madly, skin glowing and wet as he shakily pulled off his own condom and chucked it away. “ _Fuck_ Sherlock…that was the best,” he beamed, reclining tiredly on the mattress and hazily looking up at the inky summer-night sky.

  
The detective pulled out carefully, chucking away his own condom, and quite literally collapsing beside John, shivering, his muscles still visibly twitching, heat rising from his soaked skin and saturated black curls.

  
John rolled to face him, stroking his burning cheekbones gratefully with trembling fingers. “You look absolutely shattered,” he grinned.

  
“I think I died,” Sherlock muttered, finally cracking a weak smile, his pale eyes heavy and drunken-looking.

  
“That was absolutely incredible.”

  
“Glad. I…have to sleep now,” Sherlock laughed, taking one of John’s wet hands in his own and squeezing affectionately before kissing the knuckles.

  
“One more thing, Sherl.”

  
“Hm?” came the faint reply as Sherlock’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.

  
“Never, EVER try and make a joke during sex again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got bored and wrote out my Reichenbach theory. Did anyone else realise the significance of the bouncy ball Sherlock was playing with? You can do a simple but cool trick with it – handy for faking death ;)  
> I think there may only be one or two chapters after this one :)


	14. Chapter 14

London was never completely dark, even in the middle of the night. The air was cool but pleasant at 3am, the sky a deep, smoky purple-grey, bruised but slowly healing.

John shifted with a contented, sleepy sigh, opening dark-blue eyes slowly. He was met with the sight of Sherlock very close to him, whose thumb nudged snugly between his cupid-bow lips, sleeping lightly, his pale eyelids flickering.

The doctor very carefully eased back and pulled his own discarded jeans close to him, retrieving his mobile as gently and quietly as he could. He grinned to himself, biting his bottom lip as he aimed the phone at Sherlock and took a photo for posterity and possibly future blackmail requirements.

Sherlock’s eyes opened sleepily at the sound of the camera noise on John’s phone. He pulled his thumb self-consciously from between his beautiful lips, and gave the doctor a warm, crinkly grin before yawning sweetly.

“You’re becoming an increasingly oral being, Sherlock.”

The detective grinned fiendishly before replying in a murmury baritone.

“Mm...give me something to suck on.”

John’s eyebrows raised, and he licked his lips, nodding faintly and moving in for a kiss. He was halted as Sherlock planted a hand against his chest, mischievously placed a sucking kiss on the tip of John’s nose, then moved down and suckled hard on John’s collarbone, before the detective rolled over with finality, yawning extravagantly.

“Sherlock, you can’t lay that on me and then turn away. Not fair.” John swirled fingers over the detective’s bare shoulderblades affectionately.

“Well, where _should_ I lay it?”

John chuckled quietly, hooking an arm over Sherlock’s waist and taking him abruptly in hand, rewarded by a soft, surprised sigh of pleasure. He stroked the younger man gently, and immediately a delightful stream of intense moans greeted him in the gloom. He sped up, and Sherlock braced himself against the cool mattress, gasping desperately. In less than two minutes, he shuddered hard, coughing out a frantic warning.

“ _John_ … _John I’m_ …”

The doctor shifted and abruptly rolled Sherlock towards him, taking him in his mouth and swallowing as the detective came suddenly, a coarse, pained groan reverberating into the night, his whole body convulsing sweetly from the forceful orgasm.

“… _God_ , _John_ …” Sherlock heaved, closing his eyes, licking his lips and panting in glorious relief. The doctor pulled back with a proud grin and cuddled up close to his detective, sighing with satisfaction.

Sherlock came down slowly, swallowing hard and shivering with tremulous aftershocks.

John rested his head on Sherlock’s bare chest, the detective’s ribcage a bony pillow where his quick heartbeat greeted him with soft little punches against his ear.

“…Thankyou,” came the baritone murmur, as Sherlock rummaged through John’s ash-brown hair gratefully. The detective let out one final, relieved groan, then relaxed totally, hugging John close to him.

They rested together in wonderful lethargy for many minutes, holding each other in the cool, brisk, inky night.

“…You _do_ know how much you mean to me?” Sherlock murmured suddenly.

John grinned, then gave Sherlock a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Yep. And I love you too.”

“Listen…John…About earlier – “

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all good.”

“No, not _that_.” Sherlock gestured dismissively with one long hand, frowning in irritation. “I’m talking about Mycroft.”

John quirked his brows in a frown, before sighing resignedly and snuggling against Sherlock, allowing the eccentric detective to speak.

“My mother always said that when and if the time ever came, that I were to find somebody I liked enough to make love to, then that person would probably be the person I would spend the rest of my life with.”

“Your mum…knew that you were a virgin?”

“Of course. I never _told_ her, but she knew. Mycroft was just reminding me of her words.”

John cleared his throat and shifted, a little awkwardly, as a rogue breeze ruffled his ash-brown hair, chilling him slightly, birthing baby goosebumps on his bare arms. Sherlock gave him a quick, comforting squeeze as he shivered, and pulled the duvet higher around them both.

“…So now your brother and mum are expecting a long-awaited happy announcement,” John muttered, half to himself.

“Yes.”

John went silent, and Sherlock frowned when he felt the tiny nervous twitches in the doctor’s fingertips, as they rested on his abdomen.

“What’s wrong?” He demanded, pulling back a little, features crinkling as he glared down at his doctor.

John took a deep breath, and spoke quietly, his words muffled against the detective’s shoulder.

“Are you saying…that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

Sherlock sighed irritably and rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_.”

There was another pause. Sherlock felt the fingers on his lean stomach tense fractionally.

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

John’s next words were simple, his denotation blunt.

“I need to fuck you. Right now.”

The detective’s pale, alien face suddenly broke into a beaming grin, and he pulled John on top of him in one deceptively easy movement, his sensual baritone sending thrills through the doctor.

“Permission granted, soldier.”

John seized Sherlock with a vicious kiss, grinding against him as one hand scratched and fumbled desperately for the lube. The detective grinned in delight and pushed the bottle into John’s questing hand.

“Can…can you go again,” John asked breathlessly in between violent bites and suckles of Sherlock’s throat.

Deliriously, Sherlock gasped a giggly reply, hands on his doctor’s backside, forcing him into sharp, hard ruts against his crotch.

“Al…Always…You must know that…by now,” he heaved, shuddering pleasurably as John gracelessly pushed two slick fingers inside him, administering to his prostate with lethal accuracy and determined speed, his muscled arm practically a blur. In moments, Sherlock was begging.

“ _God…yes……now_ ,” he managed, even as John was slicking himself up. The doctor penetrated him in one forceful movement, groaning, before setting a frantic, noisy, inelegant rhythm, thudding into the detective as hard and fast as he could. Sherlock could do little else than hold on tight to John’s cool arms, wincing and sobbing at the agonising pleasure.

“ _J…John…I…”_ Sherlock seethed, his whole body jerking and rocking against the squeaking mattress with every manic, aggressive thrust. His dark, glossy curls bounced energetically against his pale forehead, his throat bobbed with every laboured gasp of air.

John growled and pounded into him even harder, the detective’s voice rising in pitch and volume as he suddenly spasmed hard, grey-green eyes opening wide in disbelief as he suffered a devastating climax, his mouth a shocked heart-shape, his baritone cries ragged and unrestrained.

The doctor allowed himself to orgasm, shuddering and snapping his hips forward in awkward, rhythmless thrusts, groaning breathlessly and squeezing his eyes shut as Sherlock’s nails drew blood in little half-moons on his biceps and his yells deafened him. He attempted to hold Sherlock down, who was bucking out his aftershocks violently, his hands slipping on damp, wild hips.

It took a minute for things to finally calm down, both men sweating and panting, John disengaging himself gently and laying beside the detective.

“…Sherlock? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asked cautiously, taking one of Sherlock’s damp hands and giving it a squeeze.

Sherlock took an extremely large breath and let it out in a long, satisfied gust, his pale grey-green eyes hazy as he stared up at the sky.

“That was brilliant.”

John chuckled, relieved. “So much for not making a mess.”

Sherlock flung a hand to the discarded sheet and lazily wiped them both off, before tossing it away again.

“Good as new.”

John grinned and pulled the duvet across their waists before giving Sherlock an affectionate peck on his arm, and settling back down to sleep, one of the detective’s hands hooked possessively around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> Might just be one more chapter, but I may continue in a sequel…I’m too fond of this fic and besides, we need to follow the adventures of Keith XD


	15. Chapter 15

  
**The next morning, 10am**

  
“I want you to give me that haircut now, John.”

  
The doctor glanced up from his morning paper, satisfied and comfy, where he sipped at his newly-brewed, boiling tea. He stretched his legs in his chair, dark blue eyes rolling up to the smoke-marked ceiling briefly in a display of fond long-sufferance. The detective was standing tetchily in the kitchen, his grey-green eyes sharply and soberly fixed on the new kettle, which they both knew had been acquired early that morning by Sherlock (while John had a lie-in), from the local Tesco.

  
It was only Sherlock, however, who knew that it had in fact been shoplifted (along with cat food for Keith). The detective was clad in his silky blue dressing-gown and pyjama bottoms, his neglected hair a riot of shiny near-black curls. Keith lay fast asleep in Sherlock’s room, and they could both hear his loud shuddery snores from the kitchen.

  
“I told you, I have no idea about cutting hair,” John said sleepily, cutting off a sharp, sudden yawn with his fist as he finished his sentence.

  
“And as I told you, -” 

  
“You told me you would find it a turn-on.”

  
Sherlock turned abruptly, his dressing-gown swirling dramatically and exposing his lean, pale chest. “Yes.”

  
“What the hell are you faffing around the kettle for?”

  
Sherlock groaned melodramatically, and replied with ill-concealed disdain. “I want tea.”

  
“Make it, then.”

  
“...Can’t.” The detective pouted babyishly.

  
“You’re English, Sherlock, of course you know how to make tea.”

  
A grumpy grunt was his response. Sherlock scuffed around the kitchen in a mood, while John patently ignored him, licking his lips as he read his paper.

  
The minutes itched by, Sherlock kicking cabinets and grumbling sulkily. John lifted his paper higher, grinning to himself. With a huff of frustration, Sherlock swept from the kitchen, scowling theatrically. He stumped to the sofa and threw himself down with a bitter flourish and a fierce, wordless yell.

  
John smirked and waited a few moments before setting aside his newspaper, and going to the kitchen to pick up an apple from the well-stocked fruit bowl. He went back to his armchair and paper.

  
He bit into the sweet fruit, munching happily, as crisp strong sunlight burnt through the wide-open window and branded his ashen hair gold, a refreshing breeze cooling the flat.

  
Sherlock fidgeted for a few seconds, before turning his head and speaking in a small but undeniably authoritarian voice. His grey-green eyes were narrowed intently.

  
“Give me some.”

  
John fought back a smile, crunching another bite of sweet fruit.

  
“Hmm?” He asked distractedly, flipping the page of the paper, subconsciously wiping newsprint on his pyjama bottoms.

  
“I want that apple.”

  
“Get your own. There’s plenty in the kitchen.” John took another crisp bite of the lush-pink apple, ignoring his detective.

  
Sherlock stood up, frowning. “I want _that_ one.”

  
“Fuck off.”

  
Quirking his eyebrows disdainfully, the detective strode to John, leaning down and opening his mouth against the rosy skin of the apple held in the doctor’s hand.

  
John pulled it back playfully, a cheeky smile on his face. Sherlock pouted again, furrowed brow, down-turned mouth.

  
“You want this?” John asked, raising the apple, biting his bottom lip and grinning deviously.

  
“Mm,” Sherlock muttered in frustration.

  
“…You want sex as well?”

  
The detective’s heart-shaped mouth opened briefly, before he gathered himself and swallowed. There was a faint flush of pink across his cheekbones, his throat.

  
“…Yes.”

  
“Fine. Hands and knees, now.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was struggling. With the apple as a gag, he squirmed fruitlessly on all fours on the living room floor. John had brought him to the unbearable brink of climax three times without release, and now pounded into him savagely, the detective rocking shakily with each violent, noisy thrust. Sherlock’s arms and legs were aching fiercely, his grey-green eyes were hazy, and his stuttered, wet gasps were almost suffocating him as his teeth bit into the ripe, dripping fruit.

Remarkably, the apple was still intact, though Sherlock’s chin and throat were a sticky, sweet-smelling smear of apple juice and saliva as he groaned around the fruit in his mouth, every breath an almost-disturbing gulping hiss.

  
Sherlock’s palms and knees scuffed painfully on the hardwood floor, the skin broken, as the older man forced his body to skid awkwardly every half-second. His fringe was soaked from the effort of pleasure, his eyelashes damp and spiked; he grimaced as John smacked brutally into him, the doctor’s ragged breaths seething into the sex-scented, swollen air. Sherlock was very close, suffering a beautiful agony, teetering on the edge of pain and ecstasy.

  
“Sh-Sherlock,” John managed throatily, his hips against Sherlock performing a wet, wild, furious melody, squelching delightfully into the high-summer, already-sweltering air of the flat.  
Sherlock gurgled as he began to spasm in climax, eyes helplessly closing. He writhed, brows creasing, as his teeth finally bit through the ruined, browned apple-flesh. He coughed out the mouthful of fruit instinctively, teeth gritted, before he yelled deafeningly in agony, hips thrusting pointlessly against thin air. He crushed his head against the floor in a painful fury, soaking his gorgeous hair in broken apple and his own saliva, bucking desperately.

  
John gave a few more deep thrusts, rhythmless, yet controlled, and with a final, relieved groan, he came inside Sherlock, running his shivery hands soothingly over the detective’s slippery sides, hips, legs.

  
Twenty seconds later, John pulled out as gently as he could, still a little breathless. Sherlock let out a huge groan, and collapsed onto the floor, heart-shaped mouth open and puffing out reviving exhales.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes later, after a strong cup of tea for them both and a fair amount of recovery time (which also included a decent amount of post-coital snogging), John was in the bathroom, pulling tentatively at Sherlock’s washed, damp curls, snipping off the tips as best he could, trying to make the entire mess equal. He focussed on the detective’s dark fringe, the hair around his ears, and the nape of his neck, where growth was most obvious. Tongue between his lips in concentration, he fluffed away excess hairs that had been chopped and that had settled on Sherlock’s shoulders and nose, then stood back and exhaled loudly.

  
“Not a fucking clue what I’ve done, but it looks alright.”

  
Sherlock stood with an achy groan, gave his silk dressing gown a cursory shake to rid himself of excess hairs, and then peered in the mirror with raised eyebrows, fiddling with his curls. He plucked at a few of the rebellious tendrils at his pale forehead that had been tamed, and suddenly flashed a crinkly grin.

  
“Fantastic, John,” he uttered, before kissing his doctor soundly on the mouth, lingering a little to nibble at John’s thin lips.

  
“Easy,” the doctor giggled, pushing him away. “It’s better than nothing, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

The high-summer London weather was hot, but incredibly wet. Five days after their rooftop sleepover, and the subsequent impromptu haircut, the sky was a soaked amber collage, tainted with peach and rose and scarlet. A feathery curtain of the lightest warm rain drizzled pathetically, a baby wet-season exposed in a few days of subtle British meteorological antagonism.  
It was 9.15 am, and Sherlock was fidgety. He had been very fidgety since the rooftop date. John had put this down to restlessness because of lack of cases. He had allowed Sherlock, in his insatiable ability to irritate, to embrace the eccentricities that seemed to keep him going in such times – the detective became imperturbably distracted by scorpion venom, spider webs, and a bone sample from a Mammoth that he had acquired from a friend at the National History Museum.

  
Still, Sherlock had been awkward and reticent in bed, and distracted out of bed, and his mind couldn’t seem to be reined in.

  
They had been called to a crime scene that involved a naked strangled man branded and tattooed with multiple odd marks, a seemingly unknown code. Sherlock and John were at a massively waterlogged area near Waterloo Bridge. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and two constables stood by, watching the detective do his work. Everybody’s shoes, tights and trouser-legs were clotted with Thames mud.

  
Sherlock looked at the body cursorily, nodded faintly, rolled his eyes and glanced around, looking a little breathless and shaken, and paler than ever.

  
“For God’s sakes, how can you lot not notice these things,” Sherlock murmured, without the effort of his usual bitterness.

  
“What’s up with him? He’s being bloody flaky…well, more flaky than usual,” Anderson muttered to Lestrade, watching as Sherlock swept round the body, grey-green eyes flickering agitatedly.  
The consulting detective cleared his throat, spouting a slightly choked summary.

  
“The marks…brands, have been made professionally. Scarification, healed at least six months ago. Nothing to do with the murder. It’s not a code or cipher, it’s Korean…as far as I can tell, it’s a reference to his family – mother and sister. He’s in his early thirties, amateur tattooist. Gay. This is his star sign - Pisces, name,” Sherlock announced, roughly lifting the left arm and exhibiting a black tattooed symbol and some Japanese Kanji. Sherlock then yanked up the man’s other arm carelessly. “He has a tattoo of his birthdate, upper arm, Roman Numerals.”

  
“His name?” Lestrade asked, baffled.

“The Kanji essentially represent ‘Joseph Scott’. The numerals represent the fifteenth of the third, nineteen-eighty. His identity is on his skin. He’s certainly been strangled by a man. Size of the fingermarks. Probably crime of passion, cheated on his lover. Find his phone.”

  
“But-“

  
“His lover’s most likely an ostensibly straight man, married to a woman. Probably a client. The victims’ phone will either be with the murderer…chances are he’s kept it with him and doesn’t know where to safely get rid of it; or, he will have chucked it nearby. It has GPS, locate it and check it. His lover will be on the contact list.”

  
Sherlock shivered suddenly, despite the damp heat of the summer morning. John grasped his upper arm, leaning in close.

  
“Sherlock…please…tell me what’s wrong,” the doctor uttered in a whisper, caressing Sherlock’s shirt-clad arm with a barely-restrained concern.

  
The detective’s eyes were hazy and his expression desperate as he met John’s eyes.

“I need to keep you.”

  
“You – what?”

  
“I have to have you.”

  
John’s mouth opened in pure confusion, before Sherlock elaborated in a tenuous, deep voice. “This is how real people do it, right?”

  
The constables, Sally, Anderson and Lestrade watched in various states of bafflement, as the detective dropped sharply onto one knee, right into a muddy puddle, in front of John, his expensive tailored trousers soaking in murky water.

  
Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled a velvet box from his trouser pocket and opened it in front of John.

  
“Please don’t say no.”

  
The doctor gasped in shock, his hand pressing against his mouth, as a chorus of whoops and cheers sounded around him in the damp, warm morning air. He found his breath after a few seconds.

  
“……A murder scene Sherlock, really?”

  
“…Problem?” The detective asked with a shy grin, pale and shivering, the ring still held out in an elegant hand.

  
John beamed a wonderfully sunny grin, before sinking to kneel in the muck in front of Sherlock, ruining his jeans. Face-to-face, he grinned clownishly, placing his hands on Sherlock’s hard cheekbones.

  
“Yeah, alright then.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now ;) But I happen to like this fic a lot, so it will be continued :P (Yay Keith :P)  
> Thoughts, reviews etc are welcome, they make me happy :)
> 
>  
> 
> XOXOXO
> 
> Got my new tattoo…number 38…it’s Bluebell from the Hounds episode…a black rabbit outline, filled with UV ink that glows green under blacklight ;P I’ll probably add it as my profile pic soon :)


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